The Turmoil by Booth Tarkington

no,” he said, comfortingly. “It was the very most flattering thing ever happen to me. It was almost my last flight before I went to the machine-shop, and it’s pleasant to think somebody liked it enough to—”
    “But I DON’T like it!” she exclaimed. “I don’t even understand it —and papa made so much fuss over its getting the prize, I just hate it! The truth is I never dreamed it’d get the prize.”
    “Maybe they expected father to endow the school,” Bibbs murmured.
    “Well, I had to have something to turn in, and I couldn’t write a LINE! I hate poetry, anyhow; and Bobby Lamhorn’s always teasing me about how I ‘keep my heart among the stars.’ He makes it seem such a mushy kind of thing, the way he says it. I hate it!”
    “You’ll have to live it down, Edith. Perhaps abroad and under another name you might find—”
    “Oh, hush up! I’ll hire some one to steal it and burn it the first chance I get.” She turned away petulantly, moving to the door. “I’d like to think I could hope to hear the last of it before I die!”
    “Edith!” he called, as she went into the hall.
    “What’s the matter?”
    “I want to ask you: Do I really look better, or have you just got used to me?”
    “What on earth do you mean?” she said, coming back as far as the threshold.
    “When I first came you couldn’t look at me,” Bibbs explained, in his impersonal way. “But I’ve noticed you look at me lately. I wondered if I’d—”
    “It’s because you look so much better,” she told him, cheerfully. “This month you’ve been here’s done you no end of good. It’s the change.”
    “Yes, that’s what they said at the sanitarium—the change.”
    “You look worse than ‘most anybody I ever saw,” said Edith, with supreme candor. “But I don’t know much about it. I’ve never seen a corpse in my life, and I’ve never even seen anybody that was terribly sick, so you mustn’t judge by me. I only know you do look better, I’m glad to say. But you’re right about my not being able to look at you at first. You had a kind of whiteness that—Well, you’re almost as thin, I suppose, but you’ve got more just ordinarily pale; not that ghastly look. Anybody could look at you now, Bibbs, and no—not get—”
    “Sick?”
    “Well—almost that!” she laughed. “And you’re getting a better color every day, Bibbs; you really are. You’re getting along splendidly.”
    “I—I’m afraid so,” he said, ruefully.
    “‘Afraid so’! Well, if you aren’t the queerest! I suppose you mean father might send you back to the machine-shop if you get well enough. I heard him say something about it the night of the—” The jingle of a distant bell interrupted her, and she glanced at her watch. “Bobby Lamhorn! I’m going to motor him out to look at a place in the country. Afternoon, Bibbs!”
    When she had gone, Bibbs mooned pessimistically from shelf to shelf, his eye wandering among the titles of the books. The library consisted almost entirely of handsome “uniform editions”: Irving, Poe, Cooper, Goldsmith, Scott, Byron, Burns, Longfellow, Tennyson, Hume, Gibbon, Prescott, Thackeray, Dickens, De Musset, Balzac, Gautier, Flaubert, Goethe, Schiller, Dante, and Tasso. There were shelves and shelves of encyclopedias, of anthologies, of “famous classics,” of “Oriental masterpieces,” of “masterpieces of oratory,” and more shelves of “selected libraries” of “literature,” of “the drama,” and of “modern science.” They made an effective decoration for the room, all these big, expensive books, with a glossy binding here and there twinkling a reflection of the flames that crackled in the splendid Gothic fireplace; but Bibbs had an impression that the bookseller who selected them considered them a relief, and that white-jacket considered them a burden of dust, and that nobody else considered them at all. Himself, he disturbed not one.
    There came a chime of bells from a