" 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.
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