where Sir Joseph had
established his classical library. He was sitting on the top of the
steps, when she approached him carrying six vellum bound volumes in
her arms, Sir Joseph's edition of Euripides of which the notes
exceeded the text. He dismounted and took the books from her, turning
very red as he did so.

"You should let me do all the carrying. These books are too heavy for
you."

"Thank you, I think they ought to go with the others, on this shelf."

He did not answer all at once. He was absorbed in the Euripides. It
was an _edition de luxe_, the Greek text exquisitely printed from a
fount of semi-uncial type, the special glory of the Harden Classics.

He exclaimed, "What magnificent type!"

She smiled.

"It's rare too. I've never seen any other specimen--in modern
printing."

"There is no other specimen," said she.

"Yes, there is. One book at least, printed, I think, in Germany."

"Is there? It was set up from a new fount specially made for this
edition. I always supposed my grandfather invented it."

"Oh no, he couldn't have done that. He may have adapted it. In fact,
he must have adapted it."

This young man had set aside a cherished tradition, as lightly as if
he were blowing the dust off the leaves. She was interested.

"How can you tell that?"

"Oh, I know. It's very like a manuscript in the British Museum."

"What manuscript?"

"The Greek text of the Complutensian Polyglot." (He could not help
saying to himself, 'That ought to fetch her!') "But it doesn't follow
that it's the same type. Whatever it is, it's very beautiful."

"It's easier to read, too, than the ordinary kind."

He was still turning over the pages, handling the book as a lover
handles the thing he loves. The very touch of the vellum thrilled him
with an almost sensual rapture. Here and there a line flashed from a
chorus and lured him deeper into the text. His impulse was still to
exclaim, but a finer instinct taught him to suppress his scholarly
emotion. Looking up as she spoke he saw her eyes fixed on him with a
curious sympathy. And as he thought of the possible destiny of the
Euripides he felt guilty as of a treachery towards her in loving the
same book.

"Do you read Euripides?" he asked with naive wonder.

"Yes."

"And AEschylus and Sophocles and Aristoph--?" Mr. Rickman became
embarrassed as he recalled certain curious passages, and in his
embarrassment he rushed upon his doom--"and--and 'Omer?"

It was a