and an affable–
“Can I–was there any particular book you wished to see?”
“Have you Taine’s England?”
“Beg pardon?”
“Taine’s Notes on England.”
The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil
which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and
reflected a moment:
“Ah–I see,” [with a bright smile]–“Train, you mean–not Taine. George
Francis Train. No, ma’m we–”
“I mean Taine–if I may take the liberty.”
The clerk reflected again–then:
“Taine . . . . Taine . . . . Is it hymns?”
“No, it isn’t hymns. It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just
now, and is very widely known–except among parties who sell it.”
The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk
somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the
beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion. He went away and
conferred with the proprietor. Both appeared to be non-plussed. They
thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns. Then both came
forward and the proprietor said:
“Is it an American book, ma’m?”
“No, it is an American reprint of an English translation.”
“Oh! Yes–yes–I remember, now. We are expecting it every day. It
isn’t out yet.”
“I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago.”
“Why no–can that be so?”
“Yes, I am sure of it. And besides, here is the book itself, on the
counter.”
She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field. Then she asked
the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table–and was pained to see
the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face.
He said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their
line, but be would order it if she desired it. She said, no, never mind.
Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the
inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfellows, the Tennysons, and other
favorites of her idle hours. Meantime the clerk’s eyes were busy, and no
doubt his admiration was returning again–or may be he was only gauging
her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement
only known to his guild. Now he began to “assist” her in making a
selection; but his efforts met with no success–indeed they only annoyed
her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations. Presently, while she
was holding a copy of “Venetian Life” in her hand and running over a
familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up a
paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to
dislodge the dust:
“Now here is a work that we’ve sold a lot of. Everybody that’s read it
likes it”–and he intruded it under her nose; it’s a book that I can
recommend–‘The Pirate’s Doom, or the Last of the Buccaneers.’ I think
it’s one of the best things that’s come out this season”
Laura pushed it gently aside her hand and went on and went on filching
from “Venetian Life.”
“I believe I do not want it,” she said.
The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another,
but apparently not finding what he wanted.
However, he succeeded at last. Said he:
“Have you ever read this, ma’m? I am sure you’ll like it. It’s by the
author of ‘The Hooligans of Hackensack.’ It is full of love troubles and
mysteries and all sorts of such things. The heroine strangles her own
mother. Just glance at the title please,–‘Gonderil the Vampire, or The
Dance of Death.’ And here is ‘The Jokist’s Own Treasury, or, The Phunny
Phellow’s Bosom Phriend.’ The funniest thing!–I’ve read it four times,
ma’m, and I can laugh at the very sight of it yet. And ‘Gonderil,’–
I assure you it is the most splendid book I ever read. I know you will
like these books, ma’m, because I’ve read them myself and I know what
they are.”
“Oh, I was perplexed–but I see how it is, now. You must have thought
I asked you to tell me what sort of books I wanted–for I am apt to say