"What's the use of explaining? You'd not understand."
"Perhaps I would. I'm one-fourth Italian—and they understand everything. . . . You're fond of reading, aren't you?"
"It passes the time."
"While I was waiting for you I glanced at your new books—Emerson—Dickens—Zola." He was looking toward the row of paper backs that filled almost the whole length of the mantel. "I must read them. I always like your books. You spend nearly as much time reading as I do—and you don't need it, for you've got a good education. What do you read for? To amuse yourself?"
"No."
"To get away from yourself?"
"No."
"Then why?" persisted he.
"To find out about myself."
He thought a moment, turned his face toward her. "You are clever!" he said admiringly. "What's your game?"