“This is California catawba,” said Mifflin, “in which the grape and the sunshine very pleasantly (and cheaply) fulfil their allotted destiny.  I pledge you prosperity to the black art of Advertising!”

The psychology of the art and mystery of Advertising rests upon tact, an instinctive perception of the tone and accent which will be en rapport with the mood of the hearer.  Mr. Gilbert was aware of this, and felt that quite possibly his host was prouder of his whimsical avocation as gourmet than of his sacred profession as a bookman.

“Is it possible, sir,” he began, in lucid Johnsonian, “that you can concoct so delicious an entree in so few minutes?  You are not hoaxing me?  There is no secret passage between Gissing Street and the laboratories of the Ritz?”

“Ah, you should taste Mrs. Mifflin’s cooking!” said the bookseller.  “I am only an amateur, who dabbles in the craft during her absence.  She is on a visit to her cousin in Boston.  She becomes, quite justifiably, weary of the tobacco of this establishment, and once or twice a year it does her good to breathe the pure serene of Beacon Hill.  During her absence it is my privilege to inquire into the ritual of housekeeping.  I find it very sedative after the incessant excitement and speculation of the shop.”

“I should have thought,” said Gilbert, “that life in a bookshop would be delightfully tranquil.”

“Far from it.  Living in a bookshop is like living in a warehouse of explosives.  Those shelves are ranked with the most furious combustibles in the world—­the brains of men.  I can spend a rainy afternoon reading, and my mind works itself up to such a passion and anxiety over mortal problems as almost unmans me.  It is terribly nerve-racking.  Surround a man with Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau, Chesterton, Shaw, Nietzsche, and George Ade—­ would you wonder at his getting excited?  What would happen to a cat if she had to live in a room tapestried with catnip?  She would go crazy!”

“Truly, I had never thought of that phase of bookselling,” said the young man.  “How is it, though, that libraries are shrines of such austere calm?  If books are as provocative as you suggest, one would expect every librarian to utter the shrill screams of a hierophant, to clash ecstatic castanets in his silent alcoves!”

“Ah, my boy, you forget the card index!  Librarians invented that soothing device for the febrifuge of their souls, just as I fall back upon the rites of the kitchen.  Librarians would all go mad, those capable of concentrated thought, if they did not have the cool and healing card index as medicament!  Some more of the eggs?”

“Thank you,” said Gilbert.  “Who was the butler whose name was associated with the dish?”

“What?” cried Mifflin, in agitation, “you have not heard of Samuel Butler, the author of The Way of All Flesh?  My dear young man, whoever permits himself to die before he has read that book, and also Erewhon, has deliberately forfeited his chances of paradise.  For paradise in the world to come is uncertain, but there is indeed a heaven on this earth, a heaven which we inhabit when we read a good book.  Pour yourself another glass of wine, and permit me——­”