ook of wisdom?

"_Musiciens d'aujourd'hui_," by Romain Rolland.

Craven thought he was disappointed. There was no revelation for him in
that. He held the book on his knee, and wondered what he had expected
to find, what type of book. What special line of reading was Lady
Sellingworth's likely to be? He could imagine her dreaming over "Wisdom
and Destiny," or perhaps over "The Book of Pity and of Death." On the
other hand, it seemed quite natural to think of her smiling her mocking
smile over a work of delicate, or even of bitter, irony, such as
Anatole France's story of Pilate at the Baths of Baies, or study of
the Penguins. He could not think that she cared for sentimental books,
though she might perhaps have a taste for works dealing with genuine
passion.

He heard the door open gently, and got up. Lady Sellingworth came in.
She had not changed her dress, which was a simple day dress of black.
She had only taken off her fur and hat, and now came towards him, still
wearing white gloves and holding a large black fan in her hand.

"What's that you've got?" she asked. "Oh--my book!"

"Yes. I took it up because I wondered what you were reading. I think
what people read by preference tells one something of what they are. I
was interested to know what you read. Forgive my curiosity."

She sat down by the fire, opened the fan, and held it between her face
and the flames.

"I read all sorts of things."

"Novels?"

"I very seldom read a novel now. Here is our tea. But I know you would
rather have a whisky-and-soda."

"As a rule I should, but not to-night. I want to drink what you are
drinking."

"And to smoke what I am smoking?" she said, with a faintly ironic smile.

"Yes--please."

She held out a box of cigarettes. The butler went out of the room.

"I love this house," said Craven abruptly. "I love its atmosphere."

"It isn't a modern atmosphere, is it?"

"Neither distinctively modern, nor in the least old-fashioned. I think
the right adjective for it would be perhaps--"

He paused and sat silent for a moment.

"I hardly know. There's something remote, distinguished and yet very
warm and intimate about it."

He looked at her and added, almost with hardihood.

"It's not a cold, or even a reserved house."

"Coldness and unnecessary reserve are tiresome--indeed, I might almost
say abhorrent--to me."

She had given him his tea and lemon and taken hers.

"But not aloofness?"

"You have travelled?"