“Can you recommend me some books?” she repeated. “I know you are a great reader. I have no one else to ask. We can buy no books. We can make debts for jewelry and bonnets and five-button gloves, but we can’t spend a sou for ideas. And yet, though you may not believe it, I like ideas quite as well.”
“I shall be most happy to lend you some books,” Rowland said. “I will pick some out to-morrow and send them to you.”
“No novels, please! I am tired of novels. I can imagine better stories for myself than any I read. Some good poetry, if there is such a thing nowadays, and some memoirs and histories and books of facts.”
“You shall be served. Your taste agrees with my own.”
She was silent a moment, looking at him. Then suddenly—“Tell me something about Mr. Hudson,” she demanded. “You are great friends!”
“Oh yes,” said Rowland; “we are great friends.”
“Tell me about him. Come, begin!”
“Where shall I begin? You know him for yourself.”
“No, I don’t know him; I don’t find him so easy to know. Since he has finished my bust and begun to come here disinterestedly, he has become a great talker. He says very fine things; but does he mean all he says?”
“Few of us do that.”