ed
him within. It was empty save for the owner, a low-voiced man with a
thin pointed beard who as he stood there among his books seemed to
Michael strangely in tune with his romantic surroundings, as much in
tune as some old painting by Vandyck would have seemed leaning against
the shelves of books.

A little wearily, almost cynically, Mr. Lampard bade Michael good
evening.

"May I look round?" Michael asked.

The bookseller nodded.

"Just come up?" he inquired.

"To-day," Michael confessed.

"And what sort of books are you interested in?"

"All books," said Michael.

"This set of Pater for instance," the bookseller suggested, handing
Michael a volume bound in thick sea-green cloth and richly stamped with
a golden monogram. "Nine volumes. Seven pounds ten, or six pounds
fifteen cash." This information he added in a note of disdainful
tolerance.

Michael shook his head and looked amused by the offer.

"Of course, nobody really cares for books nowadays," Mr. Lampard went
on. "In the early 'nineties it was different. Then everybody cared for
books."

Michael resented this slur upon the generation to which he belonged.

"Seven pounds ten," he repeated doubtfully. How well those solid
sea-green volumes would become the stately bookshelves of his room.

"What college?" asked Mr. Lampard. "St. Mary's? Ah, there used to be
some great buyers there. Let me see, Lord William Vaughan, the Marquis
of Montgomery's son, was at St. Mary's, and Mr. Richard Meysey. I
published his first volume of poems--of course, you've read his books.
He was at St. Mary's. Then there was Mr. Chalfont and Mr. Weymouth.
You've heard of The Patchbox? I still have some copies of the first
number, but they're getting very scarce. All St. Mary's men and all
great book buyers. But Oxford has changed in the last few years. I
really don't know why I go on selling books, or rather why I go on not
selling them."

Mr. Lampard laughed and twisted his beard with fingers that were very
thin and white. Outside in the darkness a footfall echoed along some
entry. The sound gave to Michael a sense of communion with the past, and
the ghosts of bygone loiterers were at his elbow.

"Perhaps after all I will take the Pater," he said. "Only I may not be
able to pay you this term."

The bookseller smiled.

"I don't think I shall worry you. Do you know this set--Boccaccio,
Rabelais, Straparola, Masuccio, etc. Eleven guineas bound in watered
silk. They'l