The librarian proffered Hannah More and Miss Martineau.

Glennard cursed his own inarticulateness. "I mean letters to--to
some one person--a man; their husband--or--"

"Ah," said the inspired librarian, "Eloise and Abailard."

"Well--something a little nearer, perhaps," said Glennard, with
lightness. "Didn't Merimee--"

"The lady's letters, in that case, were not published."

"Of course not," said Glennard, vexed at his blunder.

"There are George Sand's letters to Flaubert."

"Ah!" Glennard hesitated. "Was she--were they--?" He chafed at
his own ignorance of the sentimental by-paths of literature.

"If you want love-letters, perhaps some of the French eighteenth
century correspondences might suit you better--Mlle. Aisse or
Madame de Sabran--"

But Glennard insisted. "I want something modern--English or
American. I want to look something up," he lamely concluded.

The librarian could only suggest George Eliot.

"Well, give me some of the French things, then--and I'll have