like him well enough, but he's the kind of man that gets up a
reputation for being clever and artistic by running down the very
one particular thing that every one likes, and cracking up some book
or picture or play that no one has ever heard of. Just let anything
get popular once and Sheldon Corthell can't speak of it without
shuddering. But he'll go over here to some Archer Avenue pawn shop,
dig up an old brass stewpan, or coffee-pot that some greasy old
Russian Jew has chucked away, and he'll stick it up in his studio
and regularly kow-tow to it, and talk about the 'decadence of
American industrial arts.' I've heard him. I say it's pure
affectation, that's what it is, pure affectation."

But the book-case meanwhile had been filling up, and now Laura
remarked:

"No more, Landry. That's all that will go here."

She prepared to descend from the ladder. In filling the higher
shelves she had mounted almost to the topmost step.

"Careful now," said Landry, as he came forward. "Give me your hand."

She gave it to him, and then, as she descended, Landry had the
assurance to put his arm around her waist as if to steady her. He
was surprised at his own audacity, for he had premeditated nothing,
and his arm was about her before he was well aware. He yet found
time to experience a qualm of apprehension. Just how would Laura
take it? Had he gone too far?

But Laura did not even seem to notice, all her attention apparently