“This is the Tauchnitz edition of notable English and American books. How is this?” He handed her a volume of Grace Aguilar.
“No, sir! I’ve tried her, and she’s a greater bore than Jane Austen.”
“Oh, you want a love story, I suppose?” His accentuation was fairly sardonic.
“No, I don’t,” she said with an intonation which made him turn and regard her with interest. Then once more he explored his bag.
“Will this suit you?” He held out a copy of Carlyle’s “French Revolution.”
Patience groaned. “Didn’t I tell you I’d just read Thiers’?”
“This isn’t Thiers’. Try it.” And he took no further notice of her.
Patience opened the volume, and in a few moments was absorbed. There was something in the storm and blare of the style which struck a responsive chord. She did not raise her head until dinner time. She scarcely spoke until she had finished the volume, and then only to ask for the second. For several days she felt as if the atmosphere was charged with dynamite, and jumped when any one addressed her. The owner of the Tauchnitz watched her curiously. When she had finished the second volume she told him that she did not care for anything more at present. She leaned over the railing most of the day, watching the waves. Toward sunset the gentleman called peremptorily,—
“Come here.”
Patience stood before his chair.