"Oh, it's just a novel, a love-story." She stopped, but he still stood waiting, and she felt it incumbent to go on. "It's about a little Cockney draper's assistant, who takes a vacation on his bicycle, and falls in with a young girl very much above him. Her mother is a popular writer and all that. And the situation is very curious, and sad, too, and tragic. Would you care to read it?" "Does he get her?" Daylight demanded. "No; that's the point of it. He wasn't--" "And he doesn't get her, and you've read all them pages, hundreds of them, to find that out?" Daylight muttered in amazement. Miss Mason was nettled as well as amused. "But you read the mining and financial news by the hour," she retorted. "But I sure get something out of that. It's business, and it's different. I get money out of it. What do you get out of books?" "Points of view, new ideas, life." "Not worth a cent cash." "But life's worth more than cash," she argued. "Oh, well," he said, with easy masculine tolerance, "so long as you enjoy it. That's what counts, I suppose; and there's no accounting for taste." Despite his own superior point of view, he had an idea that she knew a lot, and he experienced a fleeting feeling like that of a barbarian face to face with the evidence of some tremendous culture. To Daylight culture was a worthless thing, and yet, somehow, he was vaguely troubled by a sense that there was more in culture than he imagined. Again, on her desk, in passing, he noticed a book with which he was familiar. This time he did not stop, for he had recognized the cover. It was a magazine correspondent's book on the Klondike, and he knew that he and his photograph figured in it and he knew, also, of a certain sensational chapter concerned with a woman's suicide, and with one "Too much Daylight." After that he did not talk with her again about books. He imagined what erroneous conclusions she had drawn from that particular chapter, and it stung him the more in that they were undeserved. Of all unlikely things, to have the reputation of being a lady-killer,--he, Burning Daylight,--and to have a woman kill herself out of love for him. He felt that he was a most unfortunate man and wondered by what luck that one book of all the thousands of books should have fallen into his stenographer's hands. For some days afterward he had an uncomfortable sensation of guiltiness whenever he was in Miss Mason's presence; and once he was positive that he caught her looking at him with a curious, intent gaze, as if studying what manner of man he was. He pumped Morrison, the clerk, who had first to vent his personal grievance against Miss Mason before he could tell what little he knew of her. "She comes from Siskiyou County. She's very nice to work with in the office, of course, but she's rather stuck on herself--exclusive, you know." "How do you make that out?" Daylight queried.