Under his feet was a furnace!
Even the master of Fort o' God, stern and forbidding as Philip
began to imagine him, might have laughed at the look which came
into his face. Grosellier, the cavalier, had he appeared, Philip
would have accepted with the same confidence that he had accepted
Jeanne and Pierre. But--a furnace! He thrust his hands deep in his
pockets, a trick which was always the last convincing evidence of
his perplexity, and walked slowly around the room. There were two
books on the table. One, bound in faded red vellum, was a Greek
Anthology, the other Drummond's Ascent of Man. There were other
books on a quaintly carved shelf, under the picture which had been
turned to the wall. He ran over the titles. There were a number of
French novels, Ely's Socialism, Sir Thomas More's Utopia, St.
Pierre's Paul and Virginia, and a dozen other volumes; there were
Balzac and Hugo, and Dante's Divine Comedy. Amid this array, like
a black sheep lost among the angels, was a finger-worn and faded
little volume bearing the name Camille. Something about this one
book, so strangely out of place in its present company, aroused
Philip's curiosity. It bore the name, too, which he had found
worked in the corner of Jeanne's handkerchief.
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