There were many rooms in the villa

They did not wish to share their impressions. They returned tothe hotel in time for breakfast. Chapter 13     There were many rooms in the villa, but one room which possesseda character of its own because the door was always shut, and nosound of music or laughter issued from it. Every one in the housewas vaguely conscious that something went on behind that door,and without in the least knowing what it was, were influenced intheir own thoughts by the knowledge that if the passed it the doorwould be shut, and if they made a noise Mr. Ambrose inside wouldbe disturbed. Certain acts therefore possessed merit, and otherswere bad, so that life became more harmonious and less disconnectedthan it would have been had Mr. Ambrose given up editing _Pindar_,and taken to a nomad existence, in and out of every room in the house. 　　As it was, every one was conscious that by observing certain rules,such as punctuality and quiet, by cooking well, and performing othersmall duties, one ode after another was satisfactorily restoredto the world, and they shared the continuity of the scholar's life. 　　Unfortunately, as age puts one barrier between human beings,and learning another, and sex a third, Mr. Ambrose in his studywas some thousand miles distant from the nearest human being,who in this household was inevitably a woman. He sat hour after houramong white-leaved books, alone like an idol in an empty church,still except for the passage of his hand from one side of the sheetto another, silent save for an occasional choke, which drove himto extend his pipe a moment in the air. As he worked his wayfurther and further into the heart of the poet, his chair becamemore and more deeply encircled by books, which lay open on the floor,and could only be crossed by a careful process of stepping,so delicate that his visitors generally stopped and addressed himfrom the outskirts. 　　On the morning after the dance, however, Rachel came into heruncle's room and hailed him twice, "Uncle Ridley," before hepaid her any attention. 　　At length he looked over his spectacles. 　　"Well?" he asked. 　　"I want a book," she replied. "Gibbon's _History_ _of_ _the__Roman_ _Empire_. May I have it?"She watched the lines on her uncle's face gradually rearrange themselvesat her question. It had been smooth as a mask before she spoke.