The Haunted Bookshop by Christopher Morley (parable of the sower read online TXT) 📕

each. “Very nice,” he remarked. “Very nice indeed! About the only thing missing is an ashtray. If Miss Titania is as modern as some of them, that’ll be the first thing she’ll call for. And maybe a copy of Ezra Pound’s poems. I do hope she’s not what Helen calls a bolshevixen.”

There was nothing bolshevik about a glittering limousine that drew up at the corner of Gissing and Swinburne streets early that afternoon. A chauffeur in green livery opened the door, lifted out a suitcase of beautiful brown leather, and gave a respectful hand to the vision that emerged from depths of lilac-coloured upholstery.

“Where do you want me to carry the bag, miss?”

“This is the bitter parting,” replied Miss Titania. “I don’t want you to know my address, Edwards. Some of my mad friends might worm it out of you, and I don’t want them coming down and bothering me. I am going to be very busy with literature. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Edwards saluted with a grin⁠—he worshipped the original young heiress⁠—and returned to his wheel.

“There’s one thing I want you to do for me,” said Titania. “Call up my father and tell him I’m on the job.”

“Yes, miss,” said Edwards, who would have run the limousine into a government motor truck if she had ordered it.

Miss Chapman’s small gloved hand descended into an interesting purse that was cuffed to her wrist with a bright little chain. She drew out a nickel⁠—it was characteristic of her that it was a very bright and engaging looking nickel⁠—and handed it gravely to her charioteer. Equally gravely he saluted, and the car, after moving through certain dignified arcs, swam swiftly away down Thackeray Boulevard.

Titania, after making sure that Edwards was out of sight, turned up Gissing Street with a fluent pace and an observant eye. A small boy cried, “Carry your bag, lady?” and she was about to agree, but then remembered that she was now engaged at ten dollars a week and waved him away. Our readers would feel a justifiable grudge if we did not attempt a description of the young lady, and we will employ the few blocks of her course along Gissing Street for this purpose.

Walking behind her, the observer, by the time she had reached Clemens Place, would have seen that she was faultlessly tailored in genial tweeds; that her small brown boots were sheltered by spats of that pale tan complexion exhibited by Pullman porters on the Pennsylvania Railroad; that her person was both slender and vigorous; that her shoulders were carrying a sumptuous fur of the colour described by the trade as nutria, or possibly opal smoke. The word chinchilla would have occurred irresistibly to this observer from behind; he might also, if he were the father of a family, have had a fleeting vision of many autographed stubs in a check book. The general impression that he would have retained, had he turned aside at Clemens Place, would be “expensive, but worth the expense.”

It is more likely, however, that the student of phenomena would have continued along Gissing Street to the next corner, being that of Hazlitt Street. Taking advantage of opportunity, he would overtake the lady on the pavement, with a secret, sidelong glance. If he were wise, he would pass her on the right side where her tilted bonnet permitted a wider angle of vision. He would catch a glimpse of cheek and chin belonging to the category known (and rightly) as adorable; hair that held sunlight through the dullest day; even a small platinum wrist watch that might pardonably be excused, in its exhilarating career, for beating a trifle fast. Among the greyish furs he would note a bunch of such violets as never bloom in the crude springtime, but reserve themselves for November and the plate glass windows of Fifth Avenue.

It is probable that whatever the errand of this spectator he would have continued along Gissing Street a few paces farther. Then, with calculated innocence, he would have halted halfway up the block that leads to the Wordsworth Avenue “L,” and looked backward with carefully simulated irresolution, as though considering some forgotten matter. With apparently unseeing eyes he would have scanned the bright pedestrian, and caught the full impact of her rich blue gaze. He would have seen a small resolute face rather vivacious in effect, yet with a quaint pathos of youth and eagerness. He would have noted the cheeks lit with excitement and rapid movement in the bracing air. He would certainly have noted the delicate contrast of the fur of the wild nutria with the soft V of her bare throat. Then, to his surprise, he would have seen this attractive person stop, examine her surroundings, and run down some steps into a rather dingy-looking secondhand bookshop. He would have gone about his affairs with a new and surprised conviction that the Almighty had the borough of Brooklyn under His especial care.

Roger, who had conceived a notion of some rather peevish foundling of the Ritz-Carlton lobbies and Central Park riding academies, was agreeably amazed by the sweet simplicity of the young lady.

“Is this Mr. Mifflin?” she said, as he advanced all agog from his smoky corner.

“Miss Chapman?” he replied, taking her bag. “Helen!” he called. “Miss Titania is here.”

She looked about the sombre alcoves of the shop. “I do think it’s adorable of you to take me in,” she said. “Dad has told me so much about you. He says I’m impossible. I suppose this is the literature he talks about. I want to know all about it.”

“And here’s Bock!” she cried. “Dad says he’s the greatest dog in the world, named after Botticelli or somebody. I’ve brought him a present. It’s in my bag. Nice old Bocky!”

Bock, who was unaccustomed to spats, was examining them after his own fashion.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Mifflin. “We are delighted to see you. I hope you’ll be happy with us, but I rather doubt it. Mr. Mifflin is a