“Bless us, and save us! wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! if we had known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence.”
Oliver did as the old lady bade him, and, although she lamented grievously meanwhile that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar, he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say, looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really didn’t think it would have been possible on the longest notice to have made much difference in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door, and, on Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in, found himself in a little back room quite full of books, with a window looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him to come near the table and sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser,—which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist every day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver; “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides,—that is, in some cases, because there _are_ books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?”