hungrily. She pulled out a book here, a book
there, read a paragraph, skimmed a page. There was no attempt at
classification. Lever rubbed elbows with Spinoza; Mark Twain dug a
facetious thumb into Haeckel's ribs. Fanny wanted to sit down on the
floor, legs crossed, before the open shelves, and read, and read, and
read. Fenger, watching the light in her face, seemed himself to take on
a certain glow, as people generally did who found this girl in sympathy
with them.

They were deep in book talk when Fascinating Facts strolled in, looking
aggrieved, and spoiled it with the thoroughness of one who never reads,
and is not ashamed of it.

"My word, I'm having a rotten time, Fenger," he said, plaintively.
"They've got a tape-measure out of your wife's sewing basket, those
two in there, and they're down on their hands and knees, measuring
something. It has to do with their rug, over your rug, or some such rot.
And then you take Miss Brandeis and go off into the library."

"Then stay here," said Fanny, "and talk books."

"My book's a blue-print," admitted Fascinating Facts, cheerfully.
"I never get time to read. There's enough fiction, and romance, and
adventure in my job to give me all the thrill I want. Why, just last
Tuesday--no, Thursday it was--down at the works----"

Between Fanny and Fenger there flashed a look made up of dismay, and
amusement, and secret sympathy. It was a look that said, "We both see
the humor of this. Most people wouldn't. Our angle is the same." Such a
glance jumps the gap between acquaintance and friendship that whole days
of spoken conversation cannot cover.

"Cigar?" asked Fenger, hoping to stay the flood.

"No, thanks. Say, Fenger, would there be a row if I smoked my pipe?"

"That black one? With the smell?"

"The black one, yes."

"There would." Fenger glanced in toward his wife, and smiled, dryly.
Fascinating Facts took his hand out of his pocket, regretfully.

"Wouldn't it sour a fellow on marriage! Wouldn't it! First those two
in there, with their damned linen closets, and their rugs--I beg your
pardon, Miss Brandeis! And now your missus objects to my pipe. You
wouldn't treat me like that, would you, Miss Brandeis?"

There was about him something that appealed--something boyish and
likeable.

"No, I wouldn't. I'd let you smoke a nargileh, if you wanted to,
surrounded by rolls of blue prints."

"I knew it. I'm going to drive you home for that."

And he did, in his trim litt