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.