Adventures in Contentment

"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.