nothing to smoke but cubeb cigarettes and nothing to drink but celery tonic.”
“My boy,” answered the bookseller, “Wright amuses me and Ouida still thrills me and cubeb cigarettes are good for a cold. As for celery tonic, you’ll be glad of even that to quench your thirst, where you’re going. You didn’t suppose I make my living by giving people as much money for their books as they are worth, did you? Anyway, I really didn’t want any more books, and these are probably not worth more. Bemember what I told you about imitations.”
“This girl’s no imitation,” flashed back the young man. “She’s the real thing.”
“And yet—she wants two dollars and thirteen cents badly enough to give up two packages of books for them—with all those expensive clothes on her back.”
“Now that you mention her back, it was adorable, wasn’t it? By jingo, that was rather queer, wasn’t it?” Val murmured, more to himself than to his friend, the bookseller.
He pondered this, for awhile. It interested him, and anything that interested him these days was distinctly worth thinking about. It isn’t good to be jaded with life at thirty; life should still have a sparkle; a bubble. Here was a beautiful girl, really beautiful, with breeding, position and money marked in plain signs all over her, who seemed to need a couple of dollars badly enough to agitate her. Surely it was fear—or desperation—he had glimpsed in her eyes in that fleeting glance when their gazes crossed. Here was mystery, then . . . and a beautiful girl . . . a beautiful girl. . . .
“Listen, Shylock,” he said suddenly to Masterson.
