Love is a foolish thing judged by workaday standards, and the thoughts and actions of lovers foolish beyond measure.  But the workaday standard is the wrong one, after all; for the utilitarian mind does but busy itself with the trivial and transitory interests of life, behind which looms the great and everlasting reality of the love of man and woman.  There is more significance in a nightingale’s song in the hush of a summer night than in all the wisdom of Solomon (who, by the way, was not without his little experiences of the tender passion).

The janitor in the little glass box by the entrance to the library inspected us and passed us on, with a silent benediction, to the lobby, whence (when I had handed my stick to a bald-headed demigod and received a talismanic disc in exchange) we entered the enormous rotunda of the reading-room.

I have often thought that, if some lethal vapour of highly preservative properties—­such as formaldehyde, for instance—­could be shed into the atmosphere of this apartment, the entire and complete collection of books and bookworms would be well worth preserving, for the enlightenment of posterity, as a sort of anthropological appendix to the main collection of the Museum.  For, surely, nowhere else in the world are so many strange and abnormal human beings gathered together in one place.  And a curious question that must have occurred to many observers is:  Whence do these singular creatures come, and whither do they go when the very distinct-faced clock (adjusted to literary eye-sight) proclaims closing time?  The tragic-faced gentleman, for instance, with the corkscrew ringlets that bob up and down like spiral springs as he walks?  Or the short, elderly gentleman in the black cassock and bowler hat, who shatters your nerves by turning suddenly and revealing himself as a middle-aged woman?  Whither do they go?  One never sees them elsewhere.  Do they steal away at closing time into the depths of the Museum and hide themselves until morning in sarcophagi or mummy cases?  Or do they creep through spaces in the book-shelves and spend the night behind the volumes in a congenial atmosphere of leather and antique paper?  Who can say?  What I do know is that when Ruth Bellingham entered the reading-room she appeared in comparison with these like a creature of another order; even as the head of Antinous, which formerly stood (it has since been moved) amidst the portrait-busts of the Roman Emperors, seemed like the head of a god set in a portrait gallery of illustrious baboons.

“What have we got to do?” I asked when we had found a vacant seat.  “Do you want to look up the catalogue?”

“No, I have the tickets in my bag.  The books are waiting in the ’kept books’ department.”

I placed my hat on the leather-covered shelf, dropped her gloves into it—­how delightfully intimate and companionable it seemed!—­altered the numbers on the tickets, and then we proceeded together to the “kept books” desk to collect the volumes that contained the material for our day’s work.