g. The evening was spent
gloomily, with very little conversation.

Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had
chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a few
exceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The tradesman examined
them rapidly.

'What do you ask?' he inquired, putting his head aside.

'I prefer that you should make an offer,' Reardon replied, with the
helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.

'I can't say more than two pounds ten.'

'That is at the rate of sixpence a volume---?'

'To me that's about the average value of books like these.'

Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had
neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market; he was
ashamed to betray his need by higgling.

'I'll take it,' he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. 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. It's all right; the
novel will be done soon.'

And that night he worked until twelve o'clock, doggedly, fiercely.

The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and almost
perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London made work too
difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either went to see his own
particular friends or was visited by them.

'Do you expect anyone this evening?' Amy