Malise.  Your tobacco is too good, Mr. Haywood.  I wish I could see my way to smoking another.

Haywood.  Well, sir—­that’s a funny remedy.

     With a knock on the half-opened door, a Boy appears.

Malise.  Yes.  What is it?

Boy.  Your copy for “The Watchfire,” please, sir.

Malise. [Motioning him out] Yes.  Wait!

     The Boy withdraws.  Malise goes up to the pile of books, turns
     them over, and takes up some volumes.

Malise.  This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio’s “Decameron,” Mr. Haywood illustrated.  I should say you would get more than the amount of your bill for them.

Haywood. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven!

Malise.  It’s scarce, and highly improper.  Will you take them in discharge?

Haywood. [Torn between emotions] Well, I ’ardly know what to say—­ No, Sir, I don’t think I’d like to ’ave to do with that.

Malise.  You could read them first, you know?

Haywood. [Dubiously] I’ve got my wife at ’ome.

Malise.  You could both read them.

Haywood. [Brought to his bearings] No, Sir, I couldn’t.

Malise.  Very well; I’ll sell them myself, and you shall have the result.

Haywood.  Well, thank you, sir.  I’m sure I didn’t want to trouble you.

Malise.  Not at all, Mr. Haywood.  It’s for me to apologize.

Haywood.  So long as I give satisfaction.

Malise. [Holding the door for him] Certainly.  Good evening.

Haywood.  Good evenin’, sir; no offence, I hope.

Malise.  On the contrary.

Doubtfully Haywood goes.  And Malise stands scratching his head; then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he replaces them at the top of the pile.  The Boy again advances into the doorway.

Malise.  Yes, now for you.

     He goes to the table and takes some sheets of Ms. from an old
     portfolio.  But the door is again timidly pushed open, and
     Haywood reappears.

Malise.  Yes, Mr. Haywood?

Haywood.  About that little matter, sir.  If—­if it’s any convenience to you—­I’ve—­thought of a place where I could——­

Malise.  Read them?  You’ll enjoy them thoroughly.

Haywood.  No, sir, no!  Where I can dispose of them.

Malise. [Holding out the volumes] It might be as well. [Haywood takes the books gingerly] I congratulate you, Mr. Haywood; it’s a classic.

Haywood.  Oh, indeed—­yes, sir.  In the event of there being any——­

Malise.  Anything over?  Carry it to my credit.  Your bill—­[He hands over the blue paper] Send me the receipt.  Good evening!