She had already begun to button her gloves, and to readjust
her feather boa with which she had been knocking the
Easter cards off the counter. Then she suddenly remembered
something.

"Oh, I was forgetting," she said. "Will you send something
to the house for Mr. Rasselyer at the same time? He's
going down to Virginia for the vacation. You know the
kind of thing he likes, do you not?"

"Oh, perfectly, madam," said the manager. "Mr. Rasselyer
generally reads works of--er--I think he buys mostly
books on--er--"

"Oh, travel and that sort of thing," said the lady.

"Precisely. I think we have here," and he pointed to the
counter on the left, "what Mr. Rasselyer wants."

He indicated a row of handsome books--"Seven Weeks in
the Sahara, seven dollars; Six Months in a Waggon,
six-fifty net; Afternoons in an Oxcart, two volumes,
four-thirty, with twenty off."

"I think he has read those," said Mrs. Rasselyer. "At
least there are a good many at home that seem like that."

"Oh, very possibly--but here, now, Among the Cannibals
of Corfu--yes, that I think he has had--Among the--that,