sked
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.

'I am going away,' he said in reply to my inquiring look. 'I am leaving
London.'

'For good?'

'I fear so, and yet'--he made an obvious effort--'I am glad of it. My
wife's health has not been very good lately. She has need of country air.
Yes, I am glad we have decided to go away--very glad--very glad indeed!'

He spoke with an automatic sort of emphasis, his eyes wandering, and his
hands twitching nervously. I was on the point of asking what part of the
country he had chosen for his retreat, when he abruptly added:

'I live just over there. Will you let me show you my books?'

Of course I gladly accepted the invitation, and a couple of minutes' walk
brought us to a house in a decent street where most of the ground-floor
windows showed a card announcing lodgings. As we paused at the door, my
companion seemed to hesitate, to regret having invited me.

'I'm really afraid it isn't worth your while,' he said timidly. 'The fact
is, I haven't space to show my books properly.'

I put aside the objection, and we entered. With anxious courtesy
Christopherson led me up the narrow staircase to the second-floor landing,
and threw open a door. On the threshold I stood astonished. The room was a
small one, and would in any case have only just sufficed for homely
comfort, used as it evidently was for all daytime purposes; but certainly a
third of the entire space was occupied by a solid mass of books, volumes
stacked several rows deep against two of the walls and almost up to the
ceiling. A round table and two or three chairs were the only
furniture--there was no room, indeed, for more. The window being shut, and
the sunshine glowing upon it, an intolerable stuffiness oppressed the air.
Never had I been made so uncomfortable by the odour of printed paper and
bindings.

'But,' I exclaimed, 'you said you had only a _few_ books! There must be
five times as many here as I have.'

'I forget the exact number,' murmured Christopherson, in great agitation.
'You see, I can't arrange them