pensive book, because he would spoil it before he gets back, and he would be sure to leave it in some shanty. So he takes those paper-covered abominations, and you will find torn copies of them scattered all through the Adirondacks, and down the St. Lawrence, and everywhere else that tourists congregate. I always tell the book store man to give me the worst lot of trash he has got, and he does. Now, what is that book you have with you?"
"This is one of Mr. Howells's novels. You will admit, at least, that you have heard of Howells, I suppose?"
"Heard of him? Oh, yes; I have read some of Howells's books. I am not as ignorant as you seem to think."
"What have you read of Mr. Howells's?"
"Well, I read 'The American'; I don't remember the others."
"'The American!' That is by Henry James."
"Is it? Well, I knew that it was by either Howells or James, I forgot which. They didn't write a book together, did they?"
"Well, not that I know of. Why, the depth of your ignorance about American literature is some thing appalling. You talk of it so jauntily that you evidently have no idea of it yourself."
"I wish you would take me in hand, Miss Earle.
