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 properly.  I have a few more in—­in the other room.’

He led me across the landing, opened another door, and showed me a little bedroom.  Here the encumberment was less remarkable, but one wall had completely disappeared behind volumes, and the bookishness of the air made it a disgusting thought that two persons occupied this chamber every night.