“Oh, that’s a windfall. What a bully title for a collection of the great poetries, isn’t it!”
She nodded, one caressing hand on the open book, the other propping her chin as she kept the clear wonder of her eyes upon him.
“It makes you think of singers making harmony together in a great open space. I’d like to know the man who made the selections,” he concluded.
“What kind of a windfall?” she asked.
“A real one. Pullman travelers sometimes prop their windows open with books. You can see the window-mark on the cover of this one. I found it two miles out, beside the right-of-way. There was no name in it, so I kept it. It’s the book I read most except one.”
“What’s the one?”
He laughed, holding up the still more corpulent Sears-Roebuck catalogue.
“Ah,” said she gravely. “That accounts, I suppose, for the top shelf.”
“Yes, mostly.”
“Do you like them? The Conscientious Improvers, I mean?”