“What library?” inquired I. — “Why, our library, of course.”
“I haven’t any.”
“Do you mean to have such a house as this without a library?”
“Why,” said I plaintively, “I don’t read books—I never did, and I never shall; and I don’t care anything about them. Why should I have a library?”
“Why, because it’s part of a house like this.”
“Mrs. P., are you fond of books?”
“No, not particularly. But one must have some regard to appearances. Suppose we are Hottentots, you don’t want us to look so, do you?”
I thought that it was quite as barbarous to imprison a lot of books that we should never open, and that would stand in gilt upon the shelves, silently laughing us to scorn, as not to have them if we didn’t want them. I proposed a compromise.
“Is it the looks of the thing, Mrs. P.?” said I. — “That’s all,” she answered.
“Oh! well, I’ll arrange it.”