He stowed them
skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that
was waiting.
Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those
vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told
you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a
past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or
despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was
written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin. Of
course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed;
such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two
pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can buy a
Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish
that he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library
of a poor student--battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted
editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved
more, and when Amy glanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke
into a cheerful laugh.
'I'm only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the
money is nearly at an end again, and you shall have more.
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