Nicolovius, who was observing him closely, smiled to himself.  “Ah, yes.  I’m the merest dilettante, without your happiness of being a specialist of authority.”

The old professor was a tall man, though somewhat stooped and shrunken, and his head was as bare of hair as the palm of your hand; which of course was why he wore the black silk skull cap about the house.  On the contrary his mustaches were singularly long and luxuriant, they, and the short, smart goatee, being of a peculiar deep auburn shade.  His eyes were dark, brilliant, and slightly sardonic; there were yellow pouches under them and deep transverse furrows on his forehead; his nose, once powerfully aquiline, appeared to have been broken cleanly across the middle.  Taken all in all, he was a figure to be noticed in any company.

He came forward on his rubber heels and stood at his guest’s elbow.

“Your field is science, I believe?  This Spencer was bound for me years ago, by a clever devil in Pittsburg, of all places; Huxley, too.  My Darwin is hit and miss.  Mill is here; Hume; the American John Fiske.  By chance I have The Wealth of Nations.  Here is a fine old book, Sir Henry Maine’s Ancient Law.  You know it, of course?”

“All—­all!  I know them all,” murmured the little Doctor, standing with two books under his arm and plucking out a third.  “I look back sometimes and stand amazed at the immensity of my reading.  Benjamin Kidd—­ha!  He won’t be in so many libraries when I get through with him.  You are rather strong on political economy, I see.  Alfred Marshall does very well.  Nothing much in philosophy.  The Contrat Social—­absurd.”

“Do you care for these?” asked Nicolovius, pointing to a row of well-worn works of Bible criticism.  “Of course the Germans are far in the lead in this field, and I am unhappily compelled to rely on translations.  Still I have—­”

“Here!  Look here!  I must have this!  I must take this book from you!” interrupted Queed, rather excitedly dragging a fat blue volume from a lower shelf.  “Crozier’s Civilization and Progress.  What a find!  I need it badly.  I’ll just take it with me now, shall I not?  Eh?”

“I shall be only too happy to have you take it,” said Nicolovius, blandly, “and as many others as you care for.”

“I’ll have another look and see,” said Queed.  “My copy of Crozier disappeared some time before I left New York, and so far I have been unable to replace it.  I am showing him up completely....  Why, this is singular—­extraordinary!  There’s not a history among all these books—­not a volume!”

Nicolovius’s expression oddly changed; his whole face seemed to tighten.  “No,” he said slowly, “I have some reason to dislike history.”

The young man straightened sharply, horrified.  “Why don’t you say at once that you hate Life—­Man—­the Evolution of the Race—­and be done with it?”

“Would that seem so dreadful to you?” The old man’s face wore a sad smile.  “I might say even that, I fear.  Try one of those chairs by the fire.  I shall not mind telling you how I came by this feeling.  You don’t smoke, I believe!  You miss a good deal, but since you don’t know it, how does it matter?”