"The pretty kind, perhaps," I sneered, "with leaded panes and an
antique iron lock?" "Exactly," she replied. "The dust here is
abominable. You must be just steeped in all sorts of infection; and
perhaps if you kept your books under lock and key people wouldn't run
away with them." I was a fool to have tried irony upon Mrs. Harrington.
Her outlook upon life is literal and domestic. Books are to her
primarily part of a scheme of interior decoration. Harrington's views
come closer to my own, but Harrington is an indulgent husband.
The incident was now a week old, but something of the original fury came
back to me. It was exasperating that the world should be so afraid of
dust in the only place where dust has meaning and beauty. People who
will go abroad in motor cars and veneer themselves with the germ-laden
dust of the highway, find it impossible to endure the silent deposit of
the years on the covers of an old book. And the dust of the gutter that
is swept up by trailing skirts? And the dust of soggy theatre-chairs?
And the dust of old beliefs in which we live, my friend? And the dust
that statesmen and prophets are always throwing into our eyes? None of
these interfere with Mrs.
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