of dainty comestibles, had the look of streets in a provincial town. They
had a quaintness which appealed to the fancy, and they were very restful.
The names of the streets recalled the monarchy that passed away in
bloodshed, and in _poudre de riz_. The very plane trees had a greater
sobriety than elsewhere, as though conscious they stood in a Paris where
progress was not. In front was the turbid Seine, and below, the twin
towers of Notre Dame. Susie could have kissed the hard paving stones of
the quay. Her good-natured, plain face lit up as she realized the delight
of the scene upon which her eyes rested; and it was with a little pang,
her mind aglow with characters and events from history and from fiction,
that she turned away to enter Dr Porhoet's house.

She was pleased that the approach did not clash with her fantasies. She
mounted a broad staircase, dark but roomy, and, at the command of the
_concierge_, rang a tinkling bell at one of the doorways that faced her.
Dr Porhoet opened in person..

'Arthur and Mademoiselle are already here,' he said, as he led her in.

They went through a prim French dining-room, with much woodwork and heavy
scarlet hangings, to the library. This was a large room, but the
bookcases that lined the walls, and a large writing-table heaped up with
books, much diminished its size. There were books everywhere. They were
stacked on the floor and piled on every chair. There was hardly space to
move. Susie gave a cry of delight.

'Now you mustn't talk to me. I want to look at all your books.'

'You could not please me more,' said Dr Porhoet, 'but I am afraid they
will disappoint you. They are of many sorts, but I fear there are few
that will interest an English young lady.'

He looked about his writing-table till he found a packet of cigarettes.
He gravely offered one to each of his guests. Susie was enchanted with
the strange musty smell of the old books, and she took a first glance at
them in general. For the most part they were in paper bindings, some of
them neat enough, but more with broken backs and dingy edges; they were
set along the shelves in serried rows, untidily, without method or plan.
There were many older ones also in bindings of calf and pigskin, treasure
from half the bookshops in Europe; and there were huge folios like
Prussian grenadiers; and tiny Elzevirs, which had been read by patrician
ladies in Venice. Just as Arthur was a different man in the operating
theatre, Dr