Some one came up to my side; I
looked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old
friends.
'I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken gentleman, who
looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, 'but I--I didn't like to
speak. I live not far from here.'
'Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking what I said, 'do you
live alone?'
'Alone? oh no. With my wife.'
There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down and
his head moved uneasily.
We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together
continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a
very intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof of
erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I asked
whether he wrote. No, he had never written anything--never; he was only a
bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave.
It was not long before we again met by chance. We came face to face at a
street corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. He
looked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand he
gave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faint
expression.
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