They would be across from the chapel soon.
“Your book, sir?”
“Thank you, sir—yes.”
“Why!” cried the young man—“why, it’s ‘What We Want’! At least the binding’s exactly the same.”
“It’s called ‘Essays,’” said Ansell.
“Then that’s it. Mrs. Failing, you see, she wouldn’t call it that, because three W’s, you see, in a row, she said, are vulgar, and sound like Tolstoy, if you’ve heard of him.”
Ansell confessed to an acquaintance, and then said, “Do you think ‘What We Want’ vulgar?” He was not at all interested, but he desired to escape from the atmosphere of pugilistic courtesy, more painful to him than blows themselves.
“It IS the same book,” said the other—“same title, same binding.” He weighed it like a brick in his muddy hands.
“Open it to see if the inside corresponds,” said Ansell, swallowing a laugh and a little more blood with it.
With a liberal allowance of thumb-marks, he turned the pages over and read, “‘the rural silence that is not a poet’s luxury but a practical need for all men.’ Yes, it is the same book.” Smiling pleasantly over the discovery, he handed it back to the owner.