"It does! It is _new_! I--I never read that sort of a novel. Tell me!" "Are you serious?" "Of course. It is perfectly wonderful to think of a heroine being a detective." "Oh, she's a dream!" he said with cautious enthusiasm. "She falls in love with the worst stock-washer in Wall Street, and pushes him off a ferry-boat when she finds he has cornered the trading-stamp market and is bankrupting her father, who is president of the department store trust----" "Go on!" she whispered breathlessly. "I will, but----" "What is it? Oh--is it my hand you are looking for? Here it is; I only wanted to smooth my hair a moment. Now tell me; for I never, never knew that such books were written. The books my father permits us to read are not concerned with all those vital episodes of every-day life. Nobody ever _does_ anything in the few novels I am allowed to read--except, once, in _Cranford_, somebody gets up out of a chair in one chapter--but sits down again in the next," she added wearily. "_I'll_ send you something to make anybody sit up and stay up," he said indignantly. "Baffles, the Gent Burglar; Love Militant, by Nora Norris Newman; The Crown-Snatcher, by Reginald Rodman Roony--oh, it's simply ghastly to think of what you've missed! This is the Victorian era; you have a right to be fully cognizant of the great literary movements of the twentieth century!" "I love to hear you say such things," she said, her beautiful face afire. "I desire to be modern--intensely, humanly modern. All my life I have been nourished on the classics of ages dead; the literature of the Orient, of Asia, of Europe I am familiar with; the literature of England--as far as Andrew Bang's boyhood verses. I--all my sisters--read, write, speak, even think, in ten languages. I long for something to read which is vital, familiar, friendly--something of my own time, my own day. I wish to know what young people do and dare; what they really think, what they believe, strive for, desire!" "Well--well, I don't think people really do and say and think the things that you read in interesting modern novels," he said doubtfully. "Fact is, only the tiresome novels seem to tell a portion of the truth; but they end by overdoing it and leave you yawning with a nasty taste in your mouth. I--I think you'd better let your father pick out your novels." "I don't want to," she said rebelliously. "I want _you_ to." He looked at the beautiful, rebellious face and took a closer hold on the hidden hand. "I wish you--I wish I could choose--everything for you," he said unsteadily. "I wish so, too. You are exactly the sort of man I like." "Do--do you mean it?" "Why, yes," she replied, opening her splendid eyes. "Don't I show the pleasure I take in being with you?" "But--would you tire of me if--if we always--forever----" "Were friends? No." "Mo-m-m-more than friends?" Then he choked. The speculation in her wide eyes deepened. "What do you mean?" she asked curiously.