ides, there was no
keeping "Thurston's" out of conversations in this place.

Loitering along the shelves, the young minister's eye suddenly found
itself arrested by a name on a cover. There were a dozen narrow volumes
in uniform binding, huddled together under a cardboard label of "Eminent
Women Series." Oddly enough, one of these bore the title "George Sand."
Theron saw there must be some mistake, as he took the book down, and
opened it. His glance hit by accident upon the name of Chopin. Then he
read attentively until almost the stroke of eleven.

"We have to make ourselves acquainted with all sorts of queer phases of
life," he explained in self-defence to the old bookseller, then counting
out the money for the book from his lean purse. He smiled as he added,
"There seems something almost wrong about taking advantage of the
clergyman's discount for a life of George Sand."

"I don't know," answered the other, pleasantly. "Guess she wasn't
so much different from the rest of 'em--except that she didn't mind
appearances. We know about her. We don't know about the others."

"I must hurry," said Theron, turning on his heel. The haste with which
he strode out of the store, crossed the street, and made his way toward
Thurston's, did not prevent his thinking much upon the astonishing
things he had encountered in this book. Their relation to Celia forced
itself more and more upon his mind. He could recall the twinkle in
her eye, the sub-mockery in her tone, as she commented with that
half-contemptuous "Yes--George something!" upon his blundering
ignorance. His mortification at having thus exposed his dull rusticity
was swallowed up in conjectures as to just what her tolerant familiarity
with such things involved. He had never before met a young unmarried
woman who would have confessed to him any such knowledge. But then, of
course, he had never known a girl who resembled Celia in any other way.
He recognized vaguely that he must provide himself with an entire new
set of standards by which to measure and comprehend her. But it was for
the moment more interesting to wonder what her standards were. Did she
object to George Sand's behavior? Or did she sympathize with that sort
of thing? Did those statues, and the loose-flowing diaphonous toga
and unbound hair, the cigarettes, the fiery liqueur, the deliberately
sensuous music--was he to believe that they signified--?

"Good-morning, Mr. Ware. You have managed by a miracle to hi