Elsie’s blue eyes assumed a deeper shade. Men might like that kind of thing, but she felt that her face and neck would be poppy red in another moment. Thus far she had not addressed a word to Courtenay, though by his manner he had included her in the conversation. She now resolved to break in on the attack which Isobel was beginning with the adroitness of a skilled campaigner. And she, too, could use her eyes to advantage when she chose. “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.”