She had again addressed herself to the shelves, but her eyes now swept them inattentively, and he saw that she was preoccupied with a new idea.
“And Americana–do you collect Americana?”
Selden stared and laughed.
“No, that’s rather out of my line. I’m not really a collector, you see; I simply like to have good editions of the books I am fond of.”
She made a slight grimace. “And Americana are horribly dull, I suppose?”
“I should fancy so–except to the historian. But your real collector values a thing for its rarity. I don’t suppose the buyers of Americana sit up reading them all night–old Jefferson Gryce certainly didn’t.”
She was listening with keen attention. “And yet they fetch fabulous prices, don’t they? It seems so odd to want to pay a lot for an ugly badly-printed book that one is never going to read! And I suppose most of the owners of Americana are not historians either?”
“No; very few of the historians can afford to buy them. They have to use those in the public libraries or in private collections. It seems to be the mere rarity that attracts the average collector.”
He had seated himself on an arm of the chair near which she was standing, and she continued to question him, asking which were the rarest volumes, whether the Jefferson Gryce collection was really considered the finest in the world, and what was the largest price ever fetched by a single volume.
It was so pleasant to sit there looking up at her, as she lifted now one book and then another from the shelves, fluttering the pages between her fingers, while her drooping profile was outlined against the warm background of old bindings, that he talked on without pausing to wonder at her sudden interest in so unsuggestive a subject. But he could never be long with her without trying to find a reason for what she was doing, and as she replaced his first edition of La Bruyere and turned away from the bookcases, he began to ask himself what she had been driving at. Her next question was not of a nature to enlighten him. She paused before him with a smile which seemed at once designed to admit him to her familiarity, and to remind him of the restrictions it imposed.
“Don’t you ever mind,” she asked suddenly, “not being rich enough to buy all the books you want?”
He followed her glance about the room, with its worn furniture and shabby walls.
“Don’t I just? Do you take me for a saint on a pillar?”
“And having to work–do you mind that?”
“Oh, the work itself is not so bad–I’m rather fond of the law.”
“No; but the being tied down: the routine–don’t you ever want to get away, to see new places and people?”
“Horribly–especially when I see all my friends rushing to the steamer.”
She drew a sympathetic breath. “But do you mind enough–to marry to get out of it?”
Selden broke into a laugh. “God forbid!” he declared.
She rose with a sigh, tossing her cigarette into the grate.
“Ah, there’s the difference–a girl must, a man may if he chooses.” She surveyed him critically. “Your coat’s a little shabby–but who cares? It doesn’t keep people from asking you to dine. If I were shabby no one would have me: a woman is asked out as much for her clothes as for herself. The clothes are the background, the frame, if you like: they don’t make success, but they are a part of it. Who wants a dingy woman? We are expected to be pretty and well-dressed till we drop–and if we can’t keep it up alone, we have to go into partnership.”
Selden glanced at her with amusement: it was impossible, even with her lovely eyes imploring him, to take a sentimental view of her case.
“Ah, well, there must be plenty of capital on the look-out for such an investment. Perhaps you’ll meet your fate tonight at the Trenors’.”
She returned his look interrogatively.
“I thought you might be going there–oh, not in that capacity! But there are to be a lot of your set–Gwen Van Osburgh, the Wetheralls, Lady Cressida Raith–and the George Dorsets.”