I returned to my work, after luncheon, at two o'clock. The alcove next mine was occupied by two persons—a young man and woman, both about twenty years of age. Their talk reached me, and made it impossible for me to follow any consecutive line of thought. At the time when I began to take down their conversation, the young woman was saying:
"What's 'Gibbon'? People are always talking about reading Gibbon—and then they look awfully wise. I've never dared to ask what they mean."
"Oh, it's Gibbon's history of Rome—the 'Fall of the Roman Empire,' or something like that."
"Have you ever read it?"
"Great Scott, no! It's in about a dozen volumes—I don't know how many. I've read some of it—they made us do it, freshman year."
"Is it awfully dry? Would I like it?"
"It's pretty fierce. Nothing to Grote, though—Grote's 'History of Greece'—that's the limit!"
"Gibbon is a man then? I wasn't sure what he was."
"Yes; he's the author."
"Oh, why, I've seen him! How stupid of me! I saw him when I was in Baltimore visiting the Ashfords. Why, he's just the grandest thing you ever saw in your life. He came at the end of a great long procession, with the dearest little choir-boys at the head, and he was all in scarlet robes, and a great long train, with two more little boys holding up his train, and he had the loveliest lace collar—I just went crazy over him! And I saw him on the street afterwards, too, only he didn't have on his scarlet robes then. He had on black clothes, and a tall hat, and when he lifted his hat to someone he had on a little red skull-cap underneath it. Oh, he's a perfect dear. I'd like to read his book—I wonder if they've got it here?"