"I am very sorry, my dear young lady. I am really very sorry. But I find
it necessary to confine my purchases strictly to books. My me! Yes,
strictly to books. If you had a few books, now, that you had ceased to
care for, I might allow you something eh?"
"I have only the valentines, Mr. Rowlandson" said Phyllis. "It was very
silly and wrong for me to come to you. I can see that now. Of course,
you only buy and sell books."
"Except when commissioned by customers," said Mr. Rowlandson. "An
invariable rule. If I could break it for any one, I--"
"You have been very kind," said Phyllis, rising. "So kind that I think I
cannot leave you under a misapprehension. Mr. Landless's income is quite
sufficient for our modest needs." A sudden thought made her heart beat
rapidly. "Oh, Mr. Rowlandson! You must not think he knows I am here!
Although, of course, I meant to tell him if--if I had been successful."
She hesitated again, and then, with a little appealing gesture, went
hurriedly on.
"I think I should be quite frank with you. Mr. Landless has a book of
poems--I mean--poems enough to make a book. But, although he has tried
everywhere, he cannot find a publisher who is willing to undertake his
little book. It is such a very little one, too. One firm of publishers
offered to issue it if he would pay the cost, amounting to about fifty
pounds. They wanted the copyright, too, but they have yielded that
point. Farquharson told me you said that my uncle paid nearly two
hundred pounds for my valentines when--at the time of my father's sale;
and I thought, perhaps--perhaps----Do you see? I brought a few of the
prettiest ones to show you. I thought you might have forgotten how
pretty they are. I want so badly to have John's book published, because
he is certain to succeed if only this first little book can be brought
out."
The bookseller made no reply. He sat on the step of the ladder, gazing
absently out of the window, over Phyllis's head.
Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, you old sentimentalist, with your faded
old patch-boxes and tattered old fans. You very nearly said something
then, quite out of the line of trade. Fortunately you thought it over,
for a minute or two, while Phyllis turned her pretty eyes away, to hide
the tears that filled them. Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, or you will
say it now, as she tries to smile at you, with the corners of her sweet
mouth trembling. Be care--It is of no use; he will say it.
* * * * *
"I have thought of a way I might be of service to you," said Mr.
Rowlandson meditatively. "You see--it is not as though I did not know
the value of that collection of valentines. They are worth one hundred
pounds, at the lowest figure. Now--if you would not take offense, and
you should not, I am sure, when no offense is meant; I might offer to
lend you--say, fifty pounds, or half their lowest value, accepting the
valentines as security, and--"
Phyllis's face lighted eagerly; then clouded again.
"But, Mr. Rowlandson," she objected, "that wouldn't be--quite--you
know--businesslike, would it? I shouldn't like to do anything that John
would feel was not quite regular and proper."
Mr. Rowlandson swallowed something in his throat.
"I should make it very businesslike, indeed by asking you to sign a
note; drawn in the strictest, legal terms," he said gravely. "And I
should charge you interest, at the rate of five per cent, payable
half-yearly; on the appointed day."
Phyllis considered his face with serious eyes; Mr. Rowlandson slowly
repeated:--
"Five percent? payable half-yearly; on the appointed day."
"It really sounds quite--quite businesslike and regular," she said. "Are
you certain you can spare so large a sum?--without the slightest
inconvenience?"
[Illustration: ARE YOU CERTAIN YOU CAN SPARE SO LARGE A SUM?]
"Quite certain," said Mr. Rowlandson; and then added, "I always have a
little ready money laid by--waiting for a really safe investment--like
this one--at five per cent."
Half an hour later Phyllis shook hands with the old bookseller. She had
an afterthought.
"A few of the valentines are framed. Does that make any difference? And,
tell me, Mr. Rowlandson, how can they be taken from our rooms and
delivered at your shop?"
"Well, now," said Mr. Rowlandson, pondering, "I am so much afraid of
fire in the shop it would really be a favor to me if you would let them
remain where they are--for the present; for the present, at least."
Phyllis shook hands again. The little bell tinkled. She was gone. In her
purse were five ten-pound notes. In her heart was a glad song.
Through the shop-window, Mr. Rowlandson watched her cross the street
swiftly. Then he turned. The valentines lay on the table, where she had
left them,--samples of the wares she brought to market. He wrapped them,
tied the parcel neatly, and carried it back to his desk. The square,
black volume labeled "Proceedings of the British Engineering Society"
caught his attention. He stared at it for some moments Then his blue
eyes twinkled.