waited on the threshold to receive us, as it were, and pass us in.
Watts-Dunton went and ensconced himself snugly in a corner. The sun
had appeared after a grey morning, and it pleasantly flooded this big
living-room whose walls were entirely lined with the mellow backs of
books. Here, as host, among his treasures, Swinburne was more than
ever attractive. He was as happy as was any mote in the sunshine about
him; and the fluttering of his little hands, and feet too, was but as
a token of so much felicity. He looked older, it is true, in the
strong light. But these added years made only more notable his
youngness of heart. An illustrious bibliophile among his books? A
birthday child, rather, among his toys.

Proudly he explained to me the general system under which the volumes
were ranged in this or that division of shelves. Then he conducted me
to a chair near the window, left me there, flew away, flew up the
rungs of a mahogany ladder, plucked a small volume, and in a twinkling
was at my side: `This, I think, will please you! `It did. It had a
beautifully engraved title-page and a pleasing scent of old, old
leather. It was editio princeps of a play by some lesser Elizabethan
or Jacobean. `Of course you know it?' my host fluted.

How I wished I could say that I knew it and loved it well! I revealed
to him (for by speaking very loudly towards his inclined head I was
able to make him hear) that I had not read it. He envied any one who
had such pleasure in store. He darted to the ladder, and came back
thrusting gently into my hands another volume of like date: `Of course
you know this?'

Again I had to confess that I did not, and to shout my appreciation of
the fount of type, the margins, the binding. He beamed agreement, and