a little thin about the top. His long legs under the rug displayed pointed knees, and he moved his thin, well-shaped hands nervously.
"If I can only put him at his ease with me!" thought Judy.
They talked commonplaces at first, and then, stretching out her hand, she said:
"May I see what you were reading?"
He picked up a finely bound book that lay beside him on the rug, and gave it to her.
"I don't know why it is," he said, smiling, "but one always feels slightly apologetic when discovered reading poetry."
It was The Spirit of Man, and Judy was conscious of a feeling of satisfaction. They liked the same books, then.
"It's a dear friend," she said.
"Really? I'm glad of that."
"I didn't see this," she went on, "when I was prowling about the room the other night. For I did prowl, I admit it, and I found nothing but books on religion. You see I had to do something while I was waiting for the verdict."
"I expect it was in my room," he explained. "When the book I'm working on gets the better of me, or when I'm tired of it, I turn to that."
"You're very wise." She put the book on a
