“Well, if you live here long enough you won't care to see any other places; you'll know they're not worth seeing.” Lemuel looked up as if he did not understand exactly, and Mr. Evans stepped in and lifted the book he had been reading. It was one he had bought at second hand while he was with Miss Vane: a tough little epitome of the philosophies in all times, the crabbed English version of a dry German original. Mr. Evans turned its leaves over. “Do you find it a very exciting story?” he asked.
“Why, it isn't a story,” said Lemuel, in simple surprise.
“No?” asked Mr. Evans. “I thought it must be. Most of the young gentlemen who run the elevators I travel in read stories. Do you like this kind of reading?”
Lemuel reflected, and then he said he thought you ought to find out about such things if you got a chance.
“Yes,” said the editor musingly, “I suppose one oughtn't to throw any sort of chance away. But you're sure you don't prefer the novels? You'll excuse my asking you?”
“Oh, perfectly excusable,” said Lemuel. He added that he liked a good novel too, when he could get hold of it.
“You must come to my room some day, and see if you can't get hold of one there. Or if you prefer metaphysics, I've got shelves full that you're welcome to. I suppose,” he added, “you hadn't been in Boston a great while when I met you that day?”
“No,” said Lemuel, dropping his head again, “I had just come.”
As if he saw that something painful lurked under the remembrance of the time for Lemuel the editor desisted.
The next morning he stopped on his way to breakfast with some books which he handed to Lemuel. “Don't feel at all obliged to read them,” he said, “because I lend them to you. They won't be of the least use to you, if you do so.”