“I mean Taine—­if I may take the liberty.”

The clerk reflected again—­then: 

“Taine . . . .  Taine . . . .  Is it hymns?”

“No, it isn’t hymns.  It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just now, and is very widely known—­except among parties who sell it.”

The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion.  He went away and conferred with the proprietor.  Both appeared to be non-plussed.  They thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns.  Then both came forward and the proprietor said: 

“Is it an American book, ma’m?”

“No, it is an American reprint of an English translation.”

“Oh!  Yes—­yes—­I remember, now.  We are expecting it every day.  It isn’t out yet.”

“I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago.”

“Why no—­can that be so?”

“Yes, I am sure of it.  And besides, here is the book itself, on the counter.”

She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field.  Then she asked the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table—­and was pained to see the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face.  He said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their line, but he would order it if she desired it.  She said, no, never mind.  Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfellows, the Tennysons, and other favorites of her idle hours.  Meantime the clerk’s eyes were busy, and no doubt his admiration was returning again—­or may be he was only gauging her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement only known to his guild.  Now he began to “assist” her in making a selection; but his efforts met with no success—­indeed they only annoyed her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations.  Presently, while she was holding a copy of “Venetian Life” in her hand and running over a familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up a paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to dislodge the dust: 

“Now here is a work that we’ve sold a lot of.  Everybody that’s read it likes it”—­and he intruded it under her nose; “it’s a book that I can recommend—­’The Pirate’s Doom, or the Last of the Buccaneers.’  I think it’s one of the best things that’s come out this season.”

Laura pushed it gently aside her hand and went on and went on filching from “Venetian Life.”

“I believe I do not want it,” she said.

The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another, but apparently not finding what he wanted.

However, he succeeded at last.  Said he: