the fronts of the shops, but there was one that detained him in
supreme contemplation. There was a fine assurance about it which
seemed a guarantee of masterpieces; but when at last he went in and,
just to help himself on his way, asked the impossible price, the sum
mentioned by the voluble vendor mocked at him even more than he had
feared. It was far too expensive, as he hinted, and he was on the
point of completing his comedy by a pensive retreat when the shopman
bespoke his attention for another article of the same general
character, which he described as remarkably cheap for what it was.
It was an old piece, from a sale in the country, and it had been in
stock some time; but it had got pushed out of sight in one of the
upper rooms--they contained such a wilderness of treasures--and
happened to have but just come to light. Peter suffered himself to
be conducted into an interminable dusky rear, where he presently
found himself bending over one of those square substantial desks of
old mahogany, raised, with the aid of front legs, on a sort of
retreating pedestal which is fitted with small drawers, contracted
conveniences known immemorially to the knowing as davenports. This
specimen had visibly seen service, but it had an old-time solidity
and to Peter Baron it unexpectedly appealed.

He would have said in advance that such an article was exactly what
he didn't want, but as the shopman pushed up a chair for him and he
sat down with his elbows on the gentle slope of the large, firm lid,
he felt that such a basis for literature would be half the battle.
He raised the lid and looked lovingly into the deep interior; he sat
ominously silent while his companion dropped the striking words:
"Now that's an article I personally covet!" Then when the man
mentioned the ridiculous price (they were literally giving it away),
he reflected on the economy of having a literary altar on which one