hought," said Gilbert, "that life in a bookshop would
be delightfully tranquil."

"Far from it. Living in a bookshop is like living in a warehouse of
explosives. Those shelves are ranked with the most furious
combustibles in the world--the brains of men. I can spend a rainy
afternoon reading, and my mind works itself up to such a passion and
anxiety over mortal problems as almost unmans me. It is terribly
nerve-racking. Surround a man with Carlyle, Emerson, Thoreau,
Chesterton, Shaw, Nietzsche, and George Ade--would you wonder at his
getting excited? What would happen to a cat if she had to live in a
room tapestried with catnip? She would go crazy!"

"Truly, I had never thought of that phase of bookselling," said the
young man. "How is it, though, that libraries are shrines of such
austere calm? If books are as provocative as you suggest, one would
expect every librarian to utter the shrill screams of a hierophant, to
clash ecstatic castanets in his silent alcoves!"

"Ah, my boy, you forget the card index! Librarians invented that
soothing device for the febrifuge of their souls, just as I fall back
upon the rites of the kitchen. Librarians would all go mad, those
capable of concentrated thought, if they did not have the cool and
healing card index as medicament! Some more of the eggs?"

"Thank you," said Gilbert. "Who was the butler whose name was
associated with the dish?"

"What?" cried Mifflin, in agitation, "you have not heard of Samuel
Butler, the author of The Way of All Flesh? My dear young man, whoever
permits himself to die before he has read that book, and also Erewhon,
has deliberately forfeited his chances of paradise. For paradise in
the world to come is uncertain, but there is indeed a heaven on this
earth, a heaven which we inhabit when we read a good book. Pour
yourself another glass of wine, and permit me----"

(Here followed an enthusiastic development of the perverse philosophy
of Samuel Butler, which, in deference to my readers, I omit. Mr.
Gilbert took notes of the conversation in his pocketbook, and I am
pleased to say that his heart was moved to a realization of his
iniquity, for he was observed at the Public Library a few days later
asking for a copy of The Way of All Flesh. After inquiring at four
libraries, and finding all copies of the book in circulation, he was
compelled to buy one. He never regretted doing so.)

"But I am forgetting my duties as host," said Miffl