“Well”—­hesitated the, Colonel—­“I am afraid some of them do buy their seats—­yes, I am afraid they do—­but as Senator Dilworthy himself said to me, it is sinful,—­it is very wrong—­it is shameful; Heaven protect me from such a charge.  That is what Dilworthy said.  And yet when you come to look at it you cannot deny that we would have to go without the services of some of our ablest men, sir, if the country were opposed to —­to—­bribery.  It is a harsh term.  I do not like to use it.”

The Colonel interrupted himself at this point to meet an engagement with the Austrian minister, and took his leave with his usual courtly bow.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

In due time Laura alighted at the book store, and began to look at the titles of the handsome array of books on the counter.  A dapper clerk of perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile and an affable—­

“Can I—­was there any particular book you wished to see?”

“Have you Taine’s England?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Taine’s Notes on England.”

The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and reflected a moment: 

“Ah—­I see,” [with a bright smile]—­“Train, you mean—­not Taine.  George Francis Train.  No, ma’m we—­”

“I mean Taine—­if I may take the liberty.”

The clerk reflected again—­then: 

“Taine . . . .  Taine . . . .  Is it hymns?”

“No, it isn’t hymns.  It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just now, and is very widely known—­except among parties who sell it.”

The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion.  He went away and conferred with the proprietor.  Both appeared to be non-plussed.  They thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns.  Then both came forward and the proprietor said: 

“Is it an American book, ma’m?”

“No, it is an American reprint of an English translation.”

“Oh!  Yes—­yes—­I remember, now.  We are expecting it every day.  It isn’t out yet.”

“I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago.”

“Why no—­can that be so?”

“Yes, I am sure of it.  And besides, here is the book itself, on the counter.”

She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field.  Then she asked the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table—­and was pained to see the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face.  He said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their line, but he would order it if she desired it.  She said, no, never mind.  Then she fell to conning the