which marks the typical Yorkshireman. He came to announce that everything
had been settled for the packing and transporting of Mr. Christopherson's
library; it remained only to decide the day.

'There's no hurry,' exclaimed Christopherson. 'There's really no hurry. I'm
greatly obliged to you, Mr. Pomfret, for all the trouble you are taking.
We'll settle the date in a day or two--a day or two.'

With a good-humoured nod Pomfret moved to take his leave. Our eyes met; we
left the house together. Out in the street again I took a deep breath of
the summer air, which seemed sweet as in a meadow after that stifling room.
My companion evidently had a like sensation, for he looked up to the sky
and broadened out his shoulders.

'Eh, but it's a grand day! I'd give something for a walk on Ilkley Moors.'

As the best substitute within our reach we agreed to walk across Regent's
Park together. Pomfret's business took him in that direction, and I was
glad of a talk about Christopherson. I learnt that the old book-lover's
landlady was Pomfret's aunt. Christopherson's story of affluence and ruin
was quite true. Ruin complete, for at the age of forty he had been obliged
to earn his living as a clerk or something of the kind. About five years
later came his second marriage.

'You know Mrs. Christopherson?' asked Pomfret.

'No! I wish I did. Why?'

'Because she's the sort of woman it does you good to know, that's all.
She's a lady--_my_ idea of a lady. Christopherson's a gentleman too,