“You’ve read Ruskin?” she cried. “Really, have you?”
“Sesame and Lilies—there’s where it was!”
“Oh, you know?” she exclaimed, looking at him. He caught the full flash of her delight, as well as surprise, at finding someone who had read what she quoted, and could place the phrase.
“The sun’s bright,” she continued. “Won’t you come down on my boat in the shade? I’ve lots of books, and I’m hungry—I’m starving to talk to somebody about them!”
It was a pretty little boat, sweet and clean; the sitting room was draped with curtains along the walls, and there was a bookcase against the partition. She drew a rocking chair up for him, drew her own little sewing chair up before the shelves, and began to take out books.
He had but to sit there and show his sympathy with her excitement over those books. He could not help but remember where he had first heard her name, seen the depressed woman who was her mother. And the bent old hunter who was her father. It was useless for him to try to explain her.
Just that morning, too, he had left Nelia Crele’s husband in an alcoholic stupor—a man almost incredibly stupid!
“I know you don’t mind listening to me prattle!” she laughed, archly. “You’re used to it. You’re amused, too, and you’re thinking what a story I will make, aren’t you, now?”
“If—if a man could only write you!” he said, with such sincerity that she laughed aloud with glee.
“Oh, I’ve read books!” she declared. “I know—I’ve 87 been miserable, and I’ve been unhappy, but I’ve turned to the books, and they’ve told me. They kept me alive—they kept me above those horrid little things which a woman—which I have. You’ve never been in jail, I suppose?”