in all the wonderful continental knowledge; if he found anything in it; if he understood it at all, they could meet on that one little plot of equal ground; he might even understand her carelessness about all other books.
“He is an American,” she said, desperately handing him the little green volume.
“A most nice little volume,” he demurred, “but I find it strandge that you offer me the book of an American.”
“It is the most perfect English you could have. He is a New Englander, a Bostonian; the Pilgrim Fathers; they kept up the English of our best period. The fifteenth century.”
“That is most interesting,” he said gravely, turning the precious pages. “Why have I not heard of this man? In Russia we know of course their Thoreau, he has a certain popularity amongst extremists, and I know also of course their great poet, Vitmann. I see that this is a kind of philosophical disquisitions.”