he added to his weekly stipend by what a writer terms, "legitimate
perquisites." This, being literally interpreted, means that he purchased
paper, pens and sealing-wax for the use of the Bank, and charged the goods
in at his own price, doubtless with the consent of his superior, with whom
he divided profits. He could have parodied the remark of Fletcher of
Saltoun and said, "Let me supply the perquisite-requisites and I care not
who makes the laws." So he grew rich--moderately rich--and lived simply
and comfortably up at Camberwell, with only one besetting dissipation: he
was a book-collector and had learned more Greek than Robert the Third was
to acquire. He searched bookstalls on the way to the City in the morning,
and lay in wait for First Editions on the way home at night. When he had
a holiday, he went in search of a book. He sneaked books into the house,
and declared to his admonishing wife the next week that he had always
owned 'em, or that they were presented to him. The funds his father had
left him, his salary and "the perquisites," made a goodly income, but he
always complained of poverty. He was secretly hoarding sums so as to
secure certain books.

The shelves grew until they reached the ceiling, and then bookcases
invaded the dining-room. The collector didn't trust his wife with the
household purchasing; no bank-clerk ever does--and all the pennies were
needed for books. The good wife, having nothing else to do, grew anemic,
had neuralgia and lapsed into a Shut-in, wearing a pale-blue wrapper and
reclining on a couch, around which were piled--mountain-high--books.

The pale invalid used to imagine that the great cases were swaying and
dancing a minuet, and she fully expected the tomes would all come
a-toppling down and smother her--and she didn't care much if they would;
but they never did. She was the mother of two children--the boy Robert,
born the year after her marriage; and in a little over another year a