espectfully. "Through her unbecoming goggles humanity
assumes pink and mauve colors instead of remaining drab. It may be good
for Frieda and enables her to turn out some very attractive stuff, but
it isn't the real thing. Well, I'll have to run away! Couple of fellows
waiting to drive me over to Long Beach. By-by!"

He was gone with his usual startling suddenness, and I went off to the
library, pondering. When Gordon is talking to me, I can hardly help
believing him. Indeed, if the man had been a life insurance agent he
would have made a fortune. At first, one feels absolutely compelled to
accept all his statements, and it is only after he departs that I begin
to wonder whether some flaws can't be picked in his arguments. I
occasionally discover a few, I am quite sure. Humanity is no more drab
than the flowers of the field, except in terms of the million. There is
but slight beauty in violets by the ton, as I have seen them in
Southern France, brought in cartloads to the perfume factories. They
become but a strongly-scented mass of color. I desire to pick mine as I
wander afield, one at a time, and admire the petals, while making myself
believe that they grew for my pleasure. Gordon would scoff at the idea
and declare it an accidental meeting, but what does he know of the
forces that may direct our footsteps? There is comfort in the Mohammedan
belief that everything is written before-hand.

The particular book I wanted was being read by a snuffy old gentleman,
seated at the long table in the Department of History. I wondered why he
should be interested in the frocks and flounces of a past century, and
asked for a volume on Charles the Great, a ponderous tome I carried
reverently to the big oaken table.

It was exceedingly warm, and flies were buzzing drowsily. A big handsome
girl was extracting wisdom from a dusty folio and taking notes on sheets
of yellow paper. I remember that her face was finely colored and her
lashes long. Three chairs away, on the opposite side, a little deformed
man looked up from his book, stealthily, and glanced at her. She never
saw him, I am very certain, nor was she ever conscious of the deep-set
and suffering eyes that feasted on her beauty. To him she could be no
more than a splendid dream, something as far from his reach as the
Koh-i-noor might be from mine. But I wondered whether such visions may
not be predestined parts of life, making for happiness and charm. The
young women at Mrs. M