'When will Mr Reardon's next book be published?' she asked at length.
'I'm sure I don't know. Not before the spring.'
'I shall look so anxiously for it. Whenever I meet new people Ialways turn the conversation to novels, just for the sake of asking them if they know your husband's books.'
She laughed merrily.
'Which is seldom the case, I should think,' said Amy, with a smile of indifference.
'Well, my dear, you don't expect ordinary novel-readers to know about Mr Reardon. I wish my acquaintances were a better kind of people; then, of course, I should hear of his books more often.
But one has to make the best of such society as offers. If you and your husband forsake me, I shall feel it a sad loss; I shall indeed.'
Amy gave a quick glance at the speaker's face.
'Oh, we must be friends just the same,' she said, more naturally than she had spoken hitherto. 'But don't ask us to come and dine just now. All through this winter we shall be very busy, both of us. Indeed, we have decided not to accept any invitations at all.'
'Then, so long as you let me come here now and then, I must give in. I promise not to trouble you with any more complaining. But how you can live such a life I don't know. I consider myself more of a reader than women generally are, and I should be mortally offended if anyone called me frivolous; but I must have a good deal of society. Really and truly, I can't live without it.'
'No?' said Amy, with a smile which meant more than Edith could interpret. It seemed slightly condescending.
'There's no knowing; perhaps if I had married a literary man---'
She paused, smiling and musing. 'But then I haven't, you see.'
She laughed. 'Albert is anything but a bookworm, as you know.'
'You wouldn't wish him to be.'
'Oh no! Not a bookworm. To be sure, we suit each other very well indeed. He likes society just as much as I do. It would be the death of him if he didn't spend three-quarters of every day with lively people.'
'That's rather a large portion. But then you count yourself among the lively ones.'
They exchanged looks, and laughed together.
'Of course you think me rather silly to want to talk so much with silly people,' Edith went on. 'But then there's generally some amusement to be got, you know. I don't take life quite so seriously as you do. People are people, after all; it's good fun to see how they live and hear how they talk.'
Amy felt that she was playing a sorry part. She thought of sour grapes, and of the fox who had lost his tail. Worst of all, perhaps Edith suspected the truth. She began to make inquiries about common acquaintances, and fell into an easier current of gossip.
A quarter of an hour after the visitor's departure Reardon came back. Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed upon him so that for the present he could do nothing. The evening was spent gloomily, with very little conversation.
Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a few exceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The tradesman examined them rapidly.
'What do you ask?' he inquired, putting his head aside.
'I prefer that you should make an offer,' Reardon replied, with the helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.
'I can't say more than two pounds ten.'
'That is at the rate of sixpence a volume---?'
'To me that's about the average value of books like these.'
Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market;he was ashamed to betray his need by higgling.
'I'll take it,' he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that was waiting.
Reardon looked at the gaps left on his shelves. Many of those vanished volumes were dear old friends to him; he could have told you where he had picked them up and when; to open them recalled a past moment of intellectual growth, a mood of hope or despondency, a stage of struggle. In most of them his name was written, and there were often pencilled notes in the margin. Of course he had chosen from among the most valuable he possessed;such a multitude must else have been sold to make this sum of two pounds ten. Books are cheap, you know. At need, one can buy a Homer for fourpence, a Sophocles for sixpence. It was not rubbish that he had accumulated at so small expenditure, but the library of a poor student--battered bindings, stained pages, supplanted editions. He loved his books, but there was something he loved more, and when Amy glanced at him with eyes of sympathy he broke into a cheerful laugh.
'I'm only sorry they have gone for so little. Tell me when the money is nearly at an end again, and you shall have more. It's all right; the novel will be done soon.'
And that night he worked until twelve o'clock, doggedly, fiercely.
The next day was Sunday. As a rule he made it a day of rest, and almost perforce, for the depressing influence of Sunday in London made work too difficult. Then, it was the day on which he either went to see his own particular friends or was visited by them.
'Do you expect anyone this evening?' Amy inquired.
'Biffen will look in, I dare say. Perhaps Milvain.'
'I think I shall take Willie to mother's. I shall be back before eight.'
'Amy, don't say anything about the books.'
'No, no.'
'I suppose they always ask you when we think of removing over the way?'
He pointed in a direction that suggested Marylebone Workhouse.
Amy tried to laugh, but a woman with a child in her arms has no keen relish for such jokes.
'I don't talk to them about our affairs,' she said.
'That's best.'
She left home about three o'clock, the servant going with her to carry the child.
