We parted.  I went home to chambers; Allen stayed adoring the unexampled Longepierre.  That night I dined out, and happened to sit next a young lady who possessed a great deal of taste, though that was the least of her charms.  The fashion for book-collecting was among her innocent pleasures; she had seen Allen’s books at Oxford, and I told her of his longings for the Theocritus.  Miss Breton at once was eager to see the book, and the other books, and I obtained leave to go with her and Mrs. Breton to the auction-rooms next day.  The little side-room where the treasures were displayed was empty, except for an attendant, when we went in; we looked at the things and made learned remarks, but I admit that I was more concerned to look at Miss Breton than at any work in leather by Derome or Bauzonnet.  We were thus a good deal occupied, perhaps, with each other; people came and went, while our heads were bent over a case of volumes under the window.  When we did leave, on the appeal of Mrs. Breton, we both—­both I and Kate—­Miss Breton, I mean—­saw Allen—­at least I saw him, and believed she did—­absorbed in gazing at the Longepierre Theocritus.  He held it rather near his face; the gas, which had been lit, fell on the shining Golden Fleeces of the cover, on his long thin hands and eager studious features.  It would have been a pity to disturb him in his ecstasy.  I looked at Miss Breton; we both smiled, and, of course, I presumed we smiled for the same reason.

I happen to know, and unluckily did it happen, the very minute of the hour when we left Blocksby’s.  It was a quarter to four o’clock—­a church-tower was chiming the three-quarters in the Strand, and I looked half mechanically at my own watch, which was five minutes fast.  On Sunday I went down to Oxford, and happened to walk into Allen’s rooms.  He was lying on a sofa reading the “Spectator.”  After chatting a little, I said, “You took no notice of me, nor of the Bretons yesterday, Allen, at Blocksby’s.”

“I didn’t see you,” he said; and as he was speaking there came a knock at the door.

“Come in!” cried Allen, and a man entered who was a stranger to me.  You would not have called him a gentleman perhaps.  However, I admit that I am possibly no great judge of a gentleman.

Allen looked up.

“Hullo, Mr. Thomas,” he said, “have you come up to see Mr. Mortby?” mentioning a well-known Oxford bibliophile.  “Wharton,” he went on, addressing me, “this is Mr. Thomas from Blocksby’s.”  I bowed.  Mr. Thomas seemed embarrassed.  “Can I have a word alone with you, sir?” he murmured to Allen.

“Certainly,” answered Allen, looking rather surprised.  “You’ll excuse me a moment, Wharton,” he said to me.  “Stop and lunch, won’t you?  There’s the old ‘Spectator’ for you;” and he led Mr. Thomas into a small den where he used to hear his pupils read their essays, and so forth.

In a few minutes he came out, looking rather pale, and took an embarrassed farewell of Mr. Thomas.