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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
28
"Did
you
ever
see
a
more
beautiful
binding?"
asked
the
agent,
holding
his
book
admiringly
at
arm's
length.
"This
up
here,"
he
said,
pointing
to
the
illuminated
cover,
"is
the
Muse
of
Poetry
She
is
scattering
flowers--poems,
you
know.
Fine
idea,
ain't
it?
Colouring
fine,
too."
He
jumped
up
quickly
and
laid
the
book
on
my
table,
to
the
evident
distress
of
Harriet.
"Trims
up
the
room,
don't
it?"
he
exclaimed,
turning
his
head
a
little
to
one
side
and
observing
the
effect
with
an
expression
of
affectionate
admiration.
"How
much,"
I
asked,
"will
you
sell
the
covers
for
without
the
insides?"
"Without
the
insides?"
"Yes,"
I
said,
"the
binding
will
trim
up
my
table
just
as
well
without
the
insides."
I
thought
he
looked
at
me
a
little
suspiciously,
but
he
was
evidently
satisfied
by
my
expression
of
countenance,
for
he
answered
promptly:
"Oh,
but
you
want
the
insides.
That's
what
the
books
are
for.
The
bindings
are
never
sold
alone."
He
then
went
on
to
tell
me
the
prices
and
terms
of
payment,
until
it
really
seemed
that
it
would
be
cheaper
to
buy
the
books
than
to
let
him
carry
them
away
again.
Harriet
stood
in
the
doorway
behind
him
frowning
and
evidently
trying
to
catch
my
eye.
But
I
kept
my
face
turned
aside
so
that
I
could
not
see
her
signal
of
distress
and
my
eyes
fixed
on
the
young
man
Dixon.
It
was
as
good
as
a
play.
Harriet
there,
serious-minded,
thinking
I
was
being
befooled,
and
the
agent
thinking
he
was
befooling
me,
and
I,
thinking
I
was
befooling
both
of
them--and
all
of
us
wrong.
It
was
very
like
life
wherever
you
find
it.
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