Page:Firecrackers a realistic novel.pdf/49

 As the troop evacuated, Basil spoke at last.

Mama, he begged, may I have chocolate ice-cream at the Ritz?

Paul, in the meantime, deprived of Campaspe's company at luncheon, ate a silent meal across the table from Vera. Several times she attempted to tell him about Consuelo's adventure in the flower-shop, but he was too preoccupied to listen. As soon as possible he returned to what had been his employment a good part of the morning, pacing up and down his little library, or at any rate the room which was his little library now. This chamber had originally been the pride of Bristol Whittaker, who had enjoyed a fancy for fine bindings and had indulged this taste extensively in orders and purchases from Rene Kieffer, Leon Gruel, Cobden Sanderson, Marius Michel, Noulhac, Canape, Mercier, Lortic, and the dealers in the work of dead binders. So long as the toolings were elaborate Whittaker had cared nothing about the contents of his collection and the volumes were indifferently by Ernest Renan, Pierre Loti, Gyp, Eliphas Lévi, Wilkie Collins, Mark Twain, and Henry James. It was doubtful if Paul would ever read these books. Even his own books, scattered over the great Sheraton desk, were largely neglected.

On this particular day Paul was not thinking about