always read
a little at night, upon retiring, and from his manner of saying it, I
assumed that such reading might be of a religious nature.

Now, I had not previously thought of taking anything, but just then I
happened to notice lying upon the table a copy of "Alice in Wonderland,"
evidently belonging to the premises, and I said I would take that. I had
not foregathered with Alice and the White Rabbit for a good while, and
it seemed to me that in the depths of an enchanted wood I might properly
and profitably renew their acquaintance. The story would hardly offend
Eddie, even while he was finding solace in his prayer-book.

I was only vaguely troubled when on the first night of our little
reading exercise I noticed that Eddie's book was not of the sort which I
had been led to expect, but was a rather thick, suspicious-looking
affair, paper-bound. Still, I reflected, it might be an ecclesiastical
treatise, or even what is known as a theological novel, and being
absorbed just then in an endeavor to accompany Alice into the wonderful
garden I did not investigate.

What was my surprise--my shock, I may say--next morning, on picking up
the volume, to discover that it was printed in a foreign language, and
that language French--always a suspicious thing in print--and to learn
further, when by dint of recalling old school exercises, I had spelled
out the author's name and a sentence here and there, that not only was
it in that suspicious language, but that it was a novel, and of a
sort--well, of course there is only one thing worse than an English
translation of a French novel, and that is a French novel which cannot
be translated--by any one in this country, I mean, who hopes to keep out
of jail.

I became absorbed in an endeavor to unravel a passage here and there
myself. But my French training had not fitted me for the task. My
lessons had been all about the silk gloves of my uncle's children or of
the fine leather shoes of my mother's aunt, and such innocent things. I
could find no reference to them in Eddie's book. In fact I found on
almost every page reference to things which had nothing to do with
wardrobe of any sort, and there were words of which I had the deepest
suspicion. I was tempted to fling the volume from me with a burning
blush of shame. Certainly it was necessary to protest against the
introduction of the baleful French novel into this sylvan retreat.

I did so, later in the day, but it was no use. Ed