The host was picking his way around among the contents of a box which he had just emptied upon the floor. The hostess was yielding to the temptation of an interesting bit which had caught her eye in dusting "An Attic Philosopher in Paris."
"Now here," said Dr. Hubers, picking up a thick, green book, "is Walt Whitman and that means trouble. No one is going to know whether he is prose or poetry."
"When art weds science," observed Georgia, "the resulting library is difficult to manage. Mr. Haeckel and Mr. Maeterlinck may not like being bumped up here together."
"Then put Haeckel somewhere else," said Ernestine, looking up from her book.
"No, fire Maeterlinck," commanded Karl.
"See," said Georgia—"it's begun. Strife and dissension have set in."
"I'm neither a literary man nor a librarian," ventured Dr. Parkman, "but it seems a slight oversight to complete the list of poets and leave Shakespeare lying out there on the floor."
"Got my Goethe in?" asked Karl, after Shakespeare had been left immersed in Georgia's vituperations.
"I think Browning and Keats are over there under the Encyclopedia Britannica," said Ernestine, roused to the necessity of securing a favourable position for her friends.
"Observe," said Georgia, "how they have begun insisting on their favourite authors. This is one of the early stages."