"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."