'Bruce, it's nothing to do with order. The room is perfectly tidy. It's
a question of your memory. You don't remember the name of the book.'

'Pardon me, it's not a question of remembering the name; that would be
nothing. Anyone can forget a name. That wouldn't matter.'

'Oh, then, you mean you don't even know in the least what you want?'

At this moment Bruce decided it was time to find the book, and suddenly
sprang, like a middle-aged fawn, at the writing-table, seizing a volume
triumphantly.

'There it is--the whole time!' he said, 'staring at you while you are
helplessly looking for it. Oh, Edith, Edith!' he laughed amiably. 'How
like a woman that is! And the very book a few inches from your hand!
Well, well, never mind; it's found at last. I hope, dear, in the future
you will be more careful. We'll say no more about it now.'

Edith didn't point out to Bruce that the book was a novel; that it was
blue; that it belonged to the library, was French, and that it was still
suitable for the children.

'Well, well,' he said, sitting down with the book, which he had never
wanted at all, and had never even thought of when he came to the room
first, 'well, well, here it is! And now for the point I was going to
tell you when I came in.'

'Shall we have tea, dear?' said Edith.