In my afternoon paper there was a letter by Veritas who tried to prove something about the Trusts by quoting from the third volume of Macaulay's history. After dinner I took the book from the shelf and as I struck it against the table to let the dust fly up, I thought of what Mrs. Harrington said. The Harringtons had spent an evening with me. As they rose to go Mrs. Harrington ran the tip of her gloved finger across half a dozen dingy volumes and sniffed. "Why don't you put glass doors on your bookshelves?" she asked. It was a raw point with me and she knew it. "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. Harrington's peace of mind. But when it comes to the dust on the gilt tops of my red-buckrammed MoliÈre she fears infection.

And yet Harrington is a man of exceptional intelligence. He would agree with me that infection from book-dust is not an ignoble form of death. I sit there and plot obituaries. "Mr. H. Wellington Jones," says the Evening Star, "died yesterday afternoon from ptomaine poisoning, after a very brief illness. Friday night he was with a merry group of diners in one of our best-known and most brilliantly lighted Broadway restaurants. He partook heartily of lobster salad, of which, his closest friends declare, he was inordinately fond. Almost immediately he complained of being ill and was taken home in a taxicab." If I were H. Wellington Jones and it were my fate to die of poison I could frame a nobler end for myself. "Mr. H. Wellington Jones," I would have it read, "died yesterday of some mysterious form of bacterial poisoning contracted while turning over the pages of an old family Bible which he was accustomed to consult at frequent intervals. Mr. Smith had a cut finger which was not quite healed and it is supposed that a dust-speck from the pages of the old book must have entered the wound and induced sepsis. He was found unconscious in his chair with the book open at the thirtieth chapter of Proverbs." Yes, I sometimes find it hard to understand what Harrington, a man of really fine sensibilities, sees in Mrs. Harrington. The very suggestion of locking up books to prevent their being carried away hurts like the screech of a pencil upon a slate. I think of Mrs. Harrington and then I think of Cooper. Cooper's shelves are continuously being denuded by his friends. But if you think of Cooper as a helpless victim you are sadly mistaken. There is an elaborate scheme behind it all, a scheme of such transcendent ingenuity as only simple-hearted, sweet-natured, unpractised, purblind visionaries like Cooper are capable of.

He let me into the secret one day when he saw that I was about to find it out for myself. "I know very many dear people," he said, "who are too busy to read books or too little in the habit of it. You know them, too; they are men and women in whom the pulse of life beats too rapidly for the calm pleasures of reading. They are not insensible to fine ideas, but they must see these ideas in concrete form. If I, for instance, wish to know something about Spain, I get one of Martin Hume's books, but these people take a steamer and go to Spain. I have read everything of Meredith's and they have read almost nothing, but they saw Meredith in London and spent a week-end with him at a country-house in Sussex. I avoid celebrities in the flesh. I don't want to minister to them and I want still less to patronise them. I am afraid I should be disappointed in them and I am sure they would be disappointed in me.

"However, that's not the point," says Cooper. "The problem is to make a man read who won't read of his own accord. I do it by asking such a man to dinner. I pull out a volume of Marriott's and remark, without emphasis, that after infinite exertion I have just got it back from Woolsey, who is wild over the book. The fires of envy and acquisition flash in my visitor's eye. Might he have the book for a day or two? Yes, I say after some hesitation, but he must promise to bring it back. He grows fervent. Of course he will bring it back, by Saturday at the very latest and in person. And he is my man from that moment. I have lost the book, of course, but I have smuggled my troops within the fort, I have laid the train, I have transmitted the infection. The serpent is in the garden. Time will do the work." The allusion was to Cooper's bookplate, a red serpent about a golden staff.

"Not that I leave it altogether to time," says Cooper. "Once I have handed over the book to Hobson, I make it a point to call on him at least once a week. Do you see why? Left to himself, Hobson might soon outlive the first flush of his enthusiasm for that book. But if Hobson expects me to drop in at any moment, he is afraid I may find the book on his library table and ask him whether he has read it. So he hides the book in his bedroom. Then he is indeed mine. Some night he will be out of sorts and find it hard to go to sleep. His eye will fall on the book lying there on his table, and he will pick it up, at the same time lighting a cigar. I shall never see that book again. But, I leave it to you, who needs that book more, I or Hobson?"

But Cooper did not tell all. I know he has made use of shrewder tactics. Ask any one of his acquaintances why Cooper is never seen without a half-dozen magazines under his arm, an odd volume or two of French criticism, and a couple of operatic scores. They will reply that it is just Cooper's way. It goes with his black slouch hat, his badly-creased trousers, his flowing cravat, and his general air of pre-Raphaelite ineptitude. It goes with his comprehensive ignorance of present-day politics and science, and everything else in the present that well-informed people are supposed to know. It goes with his total inability to be on time for dinners, and his habit of getting lost in the subway. But Cooper is not as often in the clouds as some imagine.

How many of Cooper's friends, for example, have ever found peculiar significance in his talent for forgetting things in other people's houses? Beneath that apparently characteristic trait there is a Machiavellian motive which I alone have found out. Hobson, let us say, has been taking dinner with Cooper, who gently pulls a copy of "Monna Vanna" from the shelf. Hobson does not rise to the bait. He may have heard that Maeterlinck is a "highbrow" and it frightens him. Or Hobson may not be going home that night, or he may object to carrying a parcel in the subway, or for any other reason he will omit to take the book with him. "The next day," says Cooper, "I pay Hobson a return visit, and forget the book on his hall-table. Frequently Hobson may be too busy to take notice of the accident. In that case I call him up on the telephone as soon as I leave his house and ask in great agitation whether by any chance I have left a volume of Maeterlinck on his hall-table. Sometimes I add that Woolsey has been after that volume for weeks. That night, I feel sure, Hobson will carry the book up to his bedroom."

And as Cooper spoke I thought of the Smith family, whom, by methods like those I have described, Cooper succeeded in saving from themselves. Nerves in the Smith family were badly rasped. The mother was not making great headway in her social campaigns. Her husband chafed at his children's idleness and extravagance. The children went in sullen fashion about their own business. They had no resources of their own. There was gloom in that household and stifled rancour, and the danger of worse things to come, until the day when Cooper called and forgot at one blow a copy of "Richard Feverel," the "Bab Ballads," and the third volume of Ferrero's "Rome."

As I have said, Cooper was not blind to the good he was doing. False modesty was not one of his failings. He would continually have me admire his bookshelves. The books he was proudest of were those he had lent or given away.... "I have a larger number of books missing," he would boast, "than any man of my acquaintance. This big hole here is my Gibbon. I sent it to an interesting old chap I met at a public dinner some years ago. He was a prosperous hardware merchant, self-made, and, like all self-made men, a bit unfinished. He had read very little. I don't recall how I happened to mention Gibbon or to send him the set. I think I may have forgotten the first volume at his office the next morning. He devoured Gibbon. From him he went to Tacitus. He has since read hundreds of books on the Roman empire and he has other hundreds of volumes waiting to be read. But somehow he has never thought of sending me back my shabby old Gibbon. And that was the way with my Montaigne—gone. And here were two editions of Gulliver. I lent one to a nephew of the Harringtons and the other to a rather prim young lady from Boston who impressed me as having had too much Emerson. My Shelley is gone. My 'Rousseau's Confessions' is also gone." And Cooper smiled at me beatifically.

That was Cooper. But Mrs. Harrington that night saw things in quite a different light. She grumbled and sniffed, and finally grew vehement. I am not a saint like Cooper, but here and there my shelves, too, show the visitations of friends. "Not a single complete set," wailed Mrs. Harrington, "everything lugged away by people who should be taught to know better. Browning, volumes I, II, V, and VII—four volumes gone. Middlemarch, volume II, first volume gone. Morley's Gladstone, volumes I and III, one volume gone. I wager you don't even know who has the second volume of your Gladstone. Do you, now?"

To tell the truth, I did not for the moment know. And as I hesitated she thrust one of the volumes in triumph at me and mechanically I opened the book and saw a red serpent about a golden staff. "I remember now," I told Mrs. Harrington. "I'll get the second volume the next time I call on Cooper."