THE SONG OF THE LARK
"Nearly every time I come in, when you 're alone, you 're reading one of those books," Thea remarked thoughtfully. "They must be very nice."
The doctor dropped back into his swivel chair, the mottled volume still in his hand. "They are n't exactly books, Thea," he said seriously. "They're a city."
"A history, you mean?"
"Yes, and no. They're a history of a live city, not a dead one. A Frenchman undertook to write about a whole cityful of people, all the kinds he knew. And he got them nearly all in, I guess. Yes, it 's very interesting. You 'll like to read it some day, when you 're grown up."
Thea leaned forward and made out the title on the back, "A Distinguished Provincial in Paris."
"It does n't sound very interesting."
"Perhaps not, but it is." The doctor scrutinized her broad face, low enough to be in the direct light from under the green lamp shade. "Yes," he went on with some satisfaction, "I think you 'll like them some day. You 're always curious about people, and I expect this man knew more about people than anybody that ever lived."
"City people or country people?"
"Both. People are pretty much the same everywhere."
"Oh, no, they 're not. The people who go through in the dining-car are n't like us."
"What makes you think they are n't, my girl? Their clothes?"
Thea shook her head. "No, it's something else. I don't know." Her eyes shifted under the doctor's searching gaze and she glanced up at the row of books. "How soon will I be old enough to read them?"
"Soon enough, soon enough, little girl." The doctor patted her hand and looked at her index finger. "The nail 's coming all right, is n't it? But I think that man makes you practice too much. You have it on your mind all the time." He had noticed that when she talked to him
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