"What a curious library you have, Captain Courtenay," she said,

looking, not at him, but at a row of books fitting closely into a small

case over the writing-table. Instantly the sailor was interested.

"Why 'curious,' Miss Maxwell?" he asked.

"First, in their assortment; secondly, in the similarity of their

binding. I have never before seen the Bible, Walt Whitman, and Dumas

in covers exactly alike."

"That is easily explained. They are bound to order. My real trouble

was to secure editions of equal size--an essential, you see--otherwise

they would not pack into their shelf."

"But what a gathering! Shakespeare, the Pilgrim's Progress,

Montaigne's Essays, Herbert Spencer, Goethe's Life, by Lewes, Marcus

Aurelius, Martial, Wordsworth, The Egoist, Thoreau, Hazlitt, and

Mitford's Tales of Old Japan! Where have I heard or read of that

particular galaxy of stars before?"

"Go on. You are on the right track," cried Courtenay, setting down the

teacup and hastening to Elsie's side. She was leaning on the table,

reading the titles of the books. The motive of her exclamation was

merged now in the fine ardor of the book-lover. She had an unconscious

trick of placing the forefinger of her right hand on her lips when

deeply engaged in thought. Elegant as Isobel Baring might be in her

studied poses, Elsie need fear no comparison as she examined the

contents of the bookcase with eager attention.

"Why the Vicomte de Bragelonne only, and not the Three Musketeers?"

she mused aloud. "And if the Life of Goethe, why not his poems, his

essays, Werther?--Ah, I know--'the crowning offence of Werther.' A

Stevenson library! Each volume he recommends in 'Books which have

influenced men,' I suppose? What a charming idea! I shall never

forgive myself for not having thought of it long ago."

Courtenay laughed and blushed like any schoolgirl. Elsie's

appreciation had a downright, honest ring in it that went far beyond

the platitudes. She accorded him the ready comradeship of a kin soul.

"Many people have been surprised by my collection; you are the first to

discover its inspiration," he said.

"That is not strange. There are so few who read. Reading means

discerning, interpreting. I am a worshiper of R. L. S., but I have

been shocked to find that for a hundred who can talk glibly of his

novels there is hardly one who has communed with him in his essays."

"We have actually hit upon a topic that should prove inexhaustible.

Believe me, Miss Maxwell, that is my pet subject. More than once,

needing a listener, I have even lectured my long-suffering terrier,

Joey, on the point."




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