'I still have a few books,' he said, under his breath, as if he spoke of
something he was ashamed to make known. 'But it is very rarely indeed that
I can add to them. I feel I have not thanked you half enough.'

We shook hands and parted.

My lodging at that time was in Camden Town. One afternoon, perhaps a
fortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back I
stopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; I
looked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old
friends.

'I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken gentleman, who
looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, 'but I--I didn't like to
speak. I live not far from here.'

'Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking what I said, 'do you
live alone?'

'Alone? oh no. With my wife.'

There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down and
his head moved uneasily.

We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together
continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a
very intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof of
erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I asked
whether he wrote. No, he had never written anything--never; he was only a
bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave.