"I've gathered quite a few books," he said suddenly.
"So I see."
"I've made an exhaustive collection of good American stuff, old and new.
I don't mean the usual Longfellow-Whittier thing--in fact, most of
it's modern."
He stepped to one of the walls and, seeing that it was expected of him,
Anthony arose and followed.
"Look!"
Under a printed tag _Americana_ he displayed six long rows of books,
beautifully bound and, obviously, carefully chosen.
"And here are the contemporary novelists."
Then Anthony saw the joker. Wedged in between Mark Twain and Dreiser
were eight strange and inappropriate volumes, the works of Richard
Caramel--"The Demon Lover," true enough ... but also seven others that
were execrably awful, without sincerity or grace.
Unwillingly Anthony glanced at Dick's face and caught a slight
uncertainty there.
"I've put my own books in, of course," said Richard Caramel hastily,
"though one or two of them are uneven--I'm afraid I wrote a little too
fast when I had that magazine contract. But I don't believe in false
modesty. Of course some of the critics haven't paid so much attention to
me since I've been established--but, after all, it's not the critics
that count.
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