“Why should it?” was his inward comment. “It is all simple enough. I have taken to sitting at home more and more, and therefore Schtoltz thinks that I——”
“But I expect you write a great deal?” she went on. “And have you read much?” Somehow her gaze seemed very intent.
“No, I cannot say that I have.” The words burst from him in a sudden fear lest she should see fit: to put him through a course of literary examination.
“What do you mean?” she inquired, laughing. Then he too laughed.
“I thought that you were going to crossquestion me about some novel or another,” he explained. “But, you see, I never read such things.”
“Then you thought wrong. I was only going to ask you about a few books of travel.”
He glanced at her quickly. Her lips were still compressed, but the rest of her face was smiling.
“I must be very, careful with her,” he refleted.
“What do you read?” she asked with seeming curiosity.
“It happens that I am particularly fond of books of travel,” he replied.