And as he lay there, he prepared himself to act the part of the cold, abstracted, supercilious man of business, the part already too horribly familiar to him as young Mr. Rickman of Rickman’s.  He reflected how nearly he had wrecked his prospects in that character.  He bade himself beware of woman and of drink, the two things most fatal to stability of judgement.  He recalled, painfully, the events of last evening.  He was not quite sure what he had done, or hadn’t done; but he believed he had all but flung up the chance of securing for Rickman’s the great Harden Library.  And he had quite a vivid and disturbing recollection of the face, the person that had inspired him with that impulse of fantastic folly.

In the candid light of morning this view of his conduct presented itself as the sane thinking of a regenerated intellect.  He realized, as he had not realized before, how colossal was the opportunity he had so narrowly let slip.  The great Harden Library would come virgin into the market, undefiled by the touch of commerce, the breath of publicity.  It had been the pure and solitary delight of scholar lovers who would have been insulted by the suggestion that they should traffic in its treasures.  Everything depended on his keeping its secret inviolate.  Heavens! supposing he had backed out of that catalogue, and Miss Harden had called in another expert.  At this point he detected in himself a tendency to wander from the matter in hand.  He reminded himself that whatever else he was there for, he was there to guard the virginal seclusion of the Aldine Plato, the Neapolitan Horace and the Aurea Legenda of Wynkyn de Worde.  He tried to shut his eyes against his vivid and disturbing vision of the lady of the library.  It suggested that he was allowing that innocent person to pay fifteen pounds for a catalogue which he had some reason to believe would be of no earthly use to her.  He sat up in bed, and silenced its suggestions with all the gravity of his official character.  If the young lady insisted on having a catalogue made, he might as well make it as any one else; in fact, a great deal better.  He tried to make himself believe that he regretted having charged her fifteen pounds when he might have got fifty.  It was more than unbusiness-like; it was, even for him, an incredibly idiotic thing to do; he would never have done it if he had not been hopelessly drunk the night before.

He got out of bed with a certain slow dignity and stepped into his cold bath solemnly, as into a font of regeneration.  And as he bathed he still rehearsed with brilliance his appointed part.  No criticism of the performance was offered by his actual self as revealed to him in the looking-glass.  It stared at him with an abstracted air, conspicuous in the helpless pathos of its nakedness.  It affected absorption in the intricate evolutions of the bath.  Something in its manner inspired him with a vague distrust.  He noticed that this morning it soaped