And he dragged the trunk to the middle of the room and knelt down on the floor and commenced to unlock it.
"My things?" cried the Girl in amazement, and ran across the room and sat down on the floor beside him. "My things?"
There was a funny little twist to the Man's mouth that never relaxed all the time he was tinkering with the lock. "Yes—your things," was all he said till the catch yielded finally, and he raised the cover to display the full contents to his companion's curious eyes.
Instinctively she clasped it to her
"Oh—books!" she cried out, with a sudden, sweeping flush of comprehension, and darted her hand into the dusty pile and pulled out a well-worn copy of the Rubaiyat. Instinctively she clasped it to her.
"I thought so!" said the Youngish Man quizzically. "I thought that was one of your books.
"When Time lets slip a little, perfect hour,
Oh, take it—for it will not come again."
His eyes narrowed, and his hands reached nervously to regain possession of the volume. Then he laughed.
"I, also, used to think that Life was made for me," he scoffed teasingly. "It's a glorious idea—as long as it lasts! You take every harsh old happening and every flimsy friendship and line it with your own silk, and then sit by and say, 'Oh, isn't the World a rustly, shimmery, luxurious place!' And all the time the happening is harsh, and the friendship is flimsy, and it's just your own perishable silk lining that does the rustle and the shimmer and the luxury act. Oh, I suppose that's 'woman talk' about silk linings, but I know a thing or two, even if I am a man."