to go upstairs, was aware of a dead silence in the room where the Christophersons were sitting.  She knocked—­prepared with some excuse—­and found the couple side by side, smiling sadly.  At once they told her the truth.  Mrs. Keeting had come because of a letter in which Mrs. Christopherson had mentioned the fact that her husband had a good many books, and hoped he might be permitted to remove them to the house in Norfolk.  She came to see the library—­with the result already heard.  They had the choice between sacrificing the books and losing what their relative offered.

‘Christopherson refused?’ I let fall.

’I suppose his wife saw that it was too much for him.  At all events, they’d agreed to keep the books and lose the house.  And there’s an end of it.  I haven’t been so riled about anything for a long time!’

Meantime I had been reflecting.  It was easy for me to understand Christopherson’s state of mind, and without knowing Mrs. Keeting, I saw that she must be a person whose benefactions would be a good deal of a burden.  After all, was Mrs. Christopherson so very unhappy?  Was she not the kind of woman who lived by sacrifice—­one who had far rather lead a life disagreeable to herself than change it at the cost of discomfort to her husband?  This view of the matter irritated Pomfret, and he broke into objurgations, directed partly against Mrs. Keeting, partly against Christopherson.  It was an ‘infernal shame,’ that was all he could say.  And after all, I rather inclined to his opinion.

When two or three days had passed, curiosity drew me towards the Christophersons’ dwelling.  Walking along the opposite side of the street, I looked up at their window, and there was the face of the old bibliophile.  Evidently he was standing at the window in idleness, perhaps in trouble.  At once he beckoned to me; but before I could knock at the house-door he had descended, and came out.

‘May I walk a little way with you?’ he asked.

There was worry on his features.  For some moments we went on in silence.

‘So you have changed your mind about leaving London?’ I said, as if carelessly.

’You have heard from Mr. Pomfret?  Well—­yes, yes—­I think we shall stay where we are—­for the present.’

Never have I seen a man more painfully embarrassed.  He walked with head bent, shoulders stooping; and shuffled, indeed, rather than walked.  Even so might a man bear himself who felt guilty of some peculiar meanness.

Presently words broke from him.

‘To tell you the truth, there’s a difficulty about the books.’  He glanced furtively at me, and I saw he was trembling in all his nerves.  ’As you see, my circumstances are not brilliant.’  He half-choked himself with a crow.  ’The fact is we were offered a house in the country, on certain conditions, by a relative of Mrs. Christopherson; and, unfortunately, it turned out that my library is regarded as an objection—­a fatal objection.  We have quite reconciled ourselves to staying where we are.’