But abruptly Landry uttered an exclamation:

"Well, what do you call this? 'Wanda,' by Ouida. How is this for
modern?"

She blushed to her hair, snatching the book from him.

"Page brought it home. It's hers."

But her confusion betrayed her, and Landry shouted derisively.

"Well, I did read it then," she suddenly declared defiantly. "No,
I'm not ashamed. Yes, I read it from cover to cover. It made me cry
like I haven't cried over a book since I was a little tot. You can
say what you like, but it's beautiful--a beautiful love story--and
it does tell about noble, unselfish people. I suppose it has its
faults, but it makes you feel better for reading it, and that's what
all your 'Wreckers' in the world would never do."

"Well," answered Landry, "I don't know much about that sort of
thing. Corthell does. He can talk you blind about literature. I've
heard him run on by the hour. He says the novel of the future is
going to be the novel without a love story."

But Laura nodded her head incredulously.

"It will be long after I am dead--that's one consolation," she said.

"Corthell is full of crazy ideas anyhow," Landry went on, still
continuing to pass the books up to her. "He's a good sort, and I