'To tell you the truth, there's a difficulty about the books.' He glanced
furtively at me, and I saw he was trembling in all his nerves. 'As you see,
my circumstances are not brilliant.' He half-choked himself with a crow.
'The fact is we were offered a house in the country, on certain conditions,
by a relative of Mrs. Christopherson; and, unfortunately, it turned out
that my library is regarded as an objection--a fatal objection. We have
quite reconciled ourselves to staying where we are.'

I could not help asking, without emphasis, whether Mrs. Christopherson
would have cared for life in the country. But no sooner were the words out
of my mouth than I regretted them, so evidently did they hit my companion
in a tender place.

'I think she would have liked it,' he answered, with a strangely pathetic
look at me, as if he entreated my forbearance.

'But,' I suggested, 'couldn't you make some arrangements about the books?
Couldn't you take a room for them in another house, for instance?'

Christopherson's face was sufficient answer; it reminded me of his
pennilessness. 'We think no more about it,' he said. 'The matter is
settled--quite settled.'

There was no pursuing the subject. At the next parting of the ways we took
leave of each other.

I think it was not more than a week later when I received a postcard from
Pomfret. He wrote: 'Just as I expected. Mrs. C. seriously ill.' That was
all.