a very clever fellow, he had the gift of expression; and there was
that Florio Montaigne. He wouldn't have suspected him if only his
record had been pure.

So instead of committing himself by writing to Rickman, he had sent
his solicitor down to look into these matters. A day or two later, in
reply to his further inquiries his solicitor assured him that there
could be no doubt that the library was intact.

To Jewdwine in his present state of mind this information was
upsetting. It not only compelled him to modify his opinion of Rickman
after having formed it, but it threw him back on the agony and
responsibility of decision. On the last morning of the term allowed
him for reflection he received that hurried note from Rickman, who had
flung all his emotions into one agonized line, "For God's sake wire me
what you mean to do." The young poet, so careful of his prose style,
had not perceived that what he had written was blank verse of the
purest; which to Jewdwine in itself sufficiently revealed the disorder
of his mind.

That _cri de coeur_ rang in Jewdwine's brain for the next twenty-four
hours. Then at the last moment he came forward with an offer of one
thousand three hundred. The next day he heard from Lucia (what indeed
he feared) that he had stepped in too late. The library was sold, to
Isaac Rickman.

His dominant emotion was now anger; he was furious with Rickman for
not having given him more time. He forgot his own delay, his fears and
vacillations; he felt that he would have done this thing if he had
only had more time. He had no doubt that Rickman had meant honestly by
him; but he had blundered; he could and he should have given him more
time. But gradually, as the certainty of his own generosity grew on
him, his indignation cooled. Reinstated in his self-esteem he could
afford to do justice to Rickman. What was more, now that the danger
was over he saw his risk more clearly than ever. He had a vision of
his brilliant future clouded by a debt of one thousand three hundred
pounds impetuously raised on the unknown, of the Harden library hung
like a mill-stone round his neck. He had no doubt that Rickman, in the
very ardour of his honesty, had greatly exaggerated its value. And as
he surveyed the probable consequences of his own superb impulse, he
was almost grateful to Rickman for not having given him time to make a
fool of himself. Thanks to Rickman, he had now all the credit of that
reckless offer without