paragraph, skimmed a page. There was no attempt at
classification. Lever rubbed elbows with Spinoza; Mark
Twain dug a facetious thumb into Haeckel's ribs. Fanny
wanted to sit down on the floor, legs crossed, before the
open shelves, and read, and read, and read. Fenger,
watching the light in her face, seemed himself to take on a
certain glow, as people generally did who found this girl in
sympathy with them.

They were deep in book talk when Fascinating Facts strolled
in, looking aggrieved, and spoiled it with the thoroughness
of one who never reads, and is not ashamed of it.

"My word, I'm having a rotten time, Fenger," he said,
plaintively. "They've got a tape-measure out of your wife's
sewing basket, those two in there, and they're down on their
hands and knees, measuring something. It has to do with
their rug, over your rug, or some such rot. And then you
take Miss Brandeis and go off into the library."

"Then stay here," said Fanny, "and talk books."

"My book's a blue-print," admitted Fascinating Facts,
cheerfully. "I never get time to read. There's enough
fiction, and romance, and adventure in my job to give me all
the thrill I want. Why, just last Tuesday--no, Thursday it
was--down at the works----"

Between Fanny and Fenger there flashed a look made up of
dismay, and amusement, and secret sympathy. It was a