Putting her book on the table she showed me a massive album, showily bound and full of autographs of price.

The collection of faded notes, of still more faded "thoughts," of quotations, platitudes, signatures, represented a formidable purpose.
I could only disclose my dread of it.

"Most people apply to Mr.Paraday by letter, you know." "Yes, but he doesn't answer.

I've written three times." "Very true," I reflected; "the sort of letter you mean goes straight into the fire." "How do you know the sort I mean ?" My interlocutress had blushed and smiled, and in a moment she added: "I don't believe he gets many like them!" "I'm sure they're beautiful, but he burns without reading." I didn't add that I had convinced him he ought to.
"Isn't he then in danger of burning things of importance ?" "He would perhaps be so if distinguished men hadn't an infallible nose for nonsense." She looked at me a moment--her face was sweet and gay.

"Do _you_ burn without reading too ?"--in answer to which I assured her that if she'd trust me with her repository I'd see that Mr.Paraday should write his name in it.
She considered a little.