taste, with the simple lines that betoken numerous dollars spent with modistes. She was expensively dressed, as even Val’s superlatively male eyes could discern at a glance. In each hand she held a bundle of books bound by a strap such as school children use for their school books, ten or a dozen in each bundle. Quite a heavy burden for so slight a girl, and he noted that she put them down with relief.
All this he noted before old Masterson looked up—she was standing in front of him at the desk. She flashed a quick glance at Val in his corner, and back at Masterson. Val could see that she was nervous and ill at ease. There was agitation in her manner and a look in her eyes that he could hardly classify—could it have been fear? It seemed to him uncommonly like it, in that instant’s glance at him. He had managed to see into her eyes then, before they were again shaded by her wonderful fringed lashes.
“Do—do you buy books here?” she asked Masterson. Her voice seemed cold and calm enough to Val. Perhaps it was imagination on his part.
“Why, occasionally, my child,” said Masterson, creaking to his feet.
“I have some here⸺” she motioned to her erstwhile burden with an inclusive sweep of her small gloved hand.
“Well, I don’t think I care for any, to-day,” he said, and added kindly, “You see, I have more books now than I like to carry, so I’m not buying for a while.”
She showed her disappointment.
“But these are very good books, sir,” she protested. “I’m sure you’ll like them, if you’ll only look at them. I was told that you are always in the market⸺”
