“Yes,” he replied, “Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike.”
“I’m very fond of him; he’s always very kind to us.”
She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson’s essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page.
“You told me you were not a great reader!” he said, mischievously. “I should think ...”
And he pointed to the books.
“Oh,” said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “a little....”
She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herself from him? Why, indeed, had she hidden herself from him?
“Emerson!” he read, bending forward a little. “Forgive me,” he added quickly. “I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here.”
“You are far-sighted?” she asked, laughing.
“Yes.”