She hesitated, and looked at me, at first suspecting some trap. As I waited quietly, she at last timidly touched a volume of The Tattler. I pointed to a modern 'popular novel,' with a picture-cover and popular title, which was among the lumber of the shelves.
'Have you read that?'
'Yes,' indifferently.
'Didn't you like that better than The Tattler?'
'Oh no!' indignantly.
'Why not? It is all about an actress.'
'An actress!' contemptuously. 'It isn't like any of the actresses I've ever met. It's a silly book.'
'Is there any other book you like?'
'Oh yes. I like these.' She passed her hand lovingly over a row—not an unbroken row, of course—of solid-looking calf-bound volumes, full of old-fashioned line engravings of British scenery, the text containing a discursive account of the places illustrated, enlivened by much historical information, apocryphal anecdote, and old-world scandal. 'And Jane Eyre, and this.' 'This' was an illustrated translation of Don Quixote. 'Oh, and I like Clarissa Harlowe and that book with the red cover.'
'Ivanhoe?'