Nancy promptly climbed up on a high stool that stood near the shelf, and with her heels hooked on the second rung and the book spread open on her lap began to read. She had time to glance only here and there; and it was with surprise and pleasure that she saw a sentence in the preface which spoke of the "writings of Mr. Arnold" as being "an example of the most delicate artistry. A talent so rare, so peculiarly sensitive, so rich in a wholly inimitable poetry, and waywardness of fancy, that one hardly hesitates to pronounce it actual genius." And it was this "genius," this "prophet in his own country," who at the present moment was hurrying off in her service. Nancy felt a positive thrill of dismay, mingled with something else that was wholly pleasant and exciting. But how in the world could she ever call him "George." Imagine calling a famous writer by his first name—it seemed impertinent, to say the least.
To tell the truth, she spent a good deal more of her time thinking about this simple, friendly gentleman than in browsing over the book-shelves which, under ordinary circumstance, would have been so fascinating to her. Why was he so very nice to her—insignificant her? How could she possibly be interesting to a man who had probably been intimate with many of the most celebrated men and women of the day? But, of course, it was very likely that he wasn't particularly interested in her, and was only that he had a generous disposition. He was ever so much older than she was—thirty-four anyway—and probably he thought she was a nice child.
She was pondering thus, the book still open on her lap, and her back to the door, when he returned, flushed with satisfaction, and also with haste.
"I say, I've done a marvellous stroke of business," he announced, as he came up behind her. "You seem to have found a very absorbing book, Nancy—aren't you at all interested in learning what my amazing talent for high finance has accomplished?"
"I can't tell you how good you have been to me," began Nancy, gratefully and shyly.
"I haven't been good to you a bit. It's you who have been good to let me help you," he said, smiling down into her eyes. "I take it as a very high compliment that you were frank enough with me to tell me how I could serve you; because there is nothing, you know, that I would rather do. That sounds rather flowery, doesn't it? But it's quite true. Now listen—I have brought you the sum of one hundred and fifty American dollars. That's more than you expected to get on the ring, isn't it?"
"A hundred and fifty!"
"Here it is, in beautiful clean notes. I'll explain it all to you presently. Did you find anything nice? What book have you got there?" He glanced at the volume she held, and seeing what it was, laughed, and took it away from her.
"How did you ever find that?" he asked, in a deprecating voice, though, at that, genuinely modest as he was, he was not ill-pleased. "I thought you would have found something better. I'm not posing as the modest author, and all that sort of thing, but there are some wonderful books in here that you shouldn't have missed."
"I—I didn't know you were—I mean——"