Пробный камень

           Againstthisbackground,whichseemedthevisibleexpressionofitsowner’sintellectualtolerance,rowsoffinebooksdetachedthemselveswithaprominence,showingthemtobeFlamel’schiefcare.

           Glennardglancedwiththeeyeofuntrainedcuriosityatthelinesofwarm-tonedmorocco,whilehishostbusiedhimselfwiththeuncorkingofApollinaris.

           “You’vegotasplendidlotofbooks,”hesaid.

           “They’refairlydecent,”theotherassented,inthecurttoneofthecollectorwhowillnottalkofhispassionforfearoftalkingofnothingelse;then,asGlennard,hishandsinhispockets,begantostrollperfunctorilydownthelonglineofbookcases—“Somemen,”Flamelirresistiblyadded,“thinkofbooksmerelyastools,othersastooling.I’mbetweenthetwo;therearedayswhenIusethemasscenery,otherdayswhenIwantthemassociety;sothat,asyousee,mylibraryrepresentsamakeshiftcompromisebetweenlooksandbrains,andthecollectorslookdownonmealmostasmuchasthestudents.”

           Glennard,withoutanswering,wasmechanicallytakingonebookafteranotherfromtheshelves.Hishandsslippedcuriouslyoverthesmoothcoversandthenoiselesssubsidenceofopeningpages.Suddenlyhecameonathinvolumeoffadedmanuscript.

           “What’sthis?”heasked,withalistlesssenseofwonder.

           “Ah,you’reatmymanuscriptshelf.I’vebeengoinginforthatsortofthinglately.”Flamelcameupandlookedoverhisshoulders.“That’sabitofStendhal—oneoftheItalianstories—andherearesomelettersofBalzactoMadameCommanville.