“But this, madam,” said Martin, examining the venerable unsold copy, “was published in 1882.”
“I regret, monsieur,” said the lady, “we have nothing more recent.”
“I’ll buy it if it breaks me—as a curiosity,” cried Corinna, and she counted out two francs, seventy-five centimes.
“Ninety-five,” said the bookseller—she was speckled and dusty and colourless like the back of her library——”
“But in Paris——”
“In Paris it is different, mademoiselle. We are here en province.”
Corinna added the extra twopence and went out with Martin, grasping her prize.
“This is the deliciousest place in the world,” she laughed. “Eighteen eighty-two! Why, that’s years before I was born!”
“But what on earth are we going to do for books here?” Martin asked anxiously.
“There is always the railway station,” said Corinna. “And if you kiss the old lady at the bookstall nicely, she will get you anything you want.”