The confidential man: "Why, you know!" (His manner indicates that it is a delicate personal secret between Miss V. and himself.) "That one I had last summer, yer know."
Miss V.: "What was the title?"
The confidential man: "The title?—Oh, the name of it?" (He regards Miss V. with the tolerant air of one who is humoring a person whose curiosity verges on the impertinent.) "Hoh! the name of it! I've clean forgot that!"
(Having thus brushed aside her trivial question, he regards the ceiling and awaits the arrival of the book.)
Miss V.: "Who was the author—who wrote it?"
(The confidential man is now convinced that Miss V., for some playful reason of her own, is merely trying to keep him at the desk,—that she has the book within reach, but chooses to be kittenish about it. He smiles pleasantly at her.)
The confidential man: "Lord, I dunno!—Just let me have it, will yer?" (He is still quite agreeable—as if he were saying: "Come, come, young lady, I know it's very nice to string out this conversation, but, after all, business is business! Let me have my book, for I must be going.")
Miss V.: "I'm afraid I can't give it to you unless you can tell me something more about it,—something definite. We have over four hundred thousand books in this library, you know, and if you don't recall the author or the title—"
(The confidential man receives the news about the four hundred thousand books with the air of a person listening to a fairy tale. The idea that there are as many books as that in the whole world, to say nothing of one library, strikes him as it would if Miss V. should tell him that she is the rightful Queen of England.)
Miss V.: "Can't you tell me about the book,—what it was about, I mean?"