Pray excuse the freedom I am taking. Lovers of books--don't
you think--?'
The broken question was completed by his look, and when I said that I quite
understood and agreed with him he crowed his little laugh.
'Have you a large library?' he inquired, eyeing me wistfully.
'Oh dear, no. Only a few hundred volumes. Too many for one who has no house
of his own.'
He smiled good-naturedly, bent his head, and murmured just audibly:
'My catalogue numbered 24,718.'
I was growing curious and interested. Venturing no more direct questions, I
asked whether, at the time he spoke of, he lived in London.
'If you have five minutes to spare,' was the timid reply, 'I will show you
my house. I mean'--again the little crowing laugh--'the house which _was_
mine.'
Willingly I walked on with him. He led me a short distance up the road
skirting Regent's Park, and paused at length before a house in an imposing
terrace.
'There,' he whispered, 'I used to live. The window to the right of the
door--that was my library. Ah!'
And he heaved a deep sigh.
'A misfortune befell you,' I said, also in a subdued voice.
'The result of my own folly. I had enough for my needs, but thought I
needed more.
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