Taking advantage of the compliment, I surmised, “Perhaps you will care less to read the poet if I quote a stanza of his:—
‘Seek truth from life, and not from books, O fool!
Look at the sky to find the stars, not in the pool.’”
“You only make me the more eager,” you said, running over the pages.
“The book is worth reading,” vouched Mr. Whitely.
“How good that is!” you appealed to him, laying your finger on lines to the effect that a dozen poor men will sleep in peace on a straw heap, while the greatest empire is too narrow for two kings.
“Very,” answered my employer, after looking at the text with a critical air. If you could only have enjoyed the joke with me!
Suddenly, as I watched you, you became pale, and glancing down to learn the cause, I saw a manuscript note in my father’s handwriting on the margin of the page. “Mr. Whitely,” you asked huskily, “how did you get this book?”
Had you looked at me you would have seen one paler than yourself, as I stood there expecting the axe to fall. Oh! the relief when Mr. Whitely replied, “I bought it in Germany.”
You closed the volume, remarking, “I do not think I will ask the loan, after all. He seems an author one ought to own.”
“I hoped you would add an association to the book,” urged Mr. Whitely.