"Yes, and I'm broke, and Ethel would not allow me to break off the engagement until I spoke to you."
"She is a foolish girl. You are released, and I think it a good thing for my daughter."
"Perhaps some day when I go to work—" poor Libro pleaded.
"Work! Work!" retorted Mr. Edwards, "who ever heard of a stock broker who worked!"
Without another word they parted—and Libro returned to the drawing-room to pay, with many kisses, his farewell to Ethel.
When at last he was on the street he thought that poverty was the most terrible thing in the world—it destroyed in a moment love and happiness. And yet he was no longer thrice a fool—for he was not engaged, he was no longer a speculator, and, of course, he must cease to be a collector. While he was meditating about this curious effect of poverty, which had changed over night a fool into a philosopher, a beggar approached him. He felt in his pockets and handed him a quarter. Libro then went on his way, for the humor of the incident appealed to him.
The next day he tried to secure a position. He asked all his friends, who could do nothing "on account of the war."
He then tried the department stores, the banks, the hotels, the theatres—everywhere. No one would give a position to a stock-broker. Mr. Edwards was right!
But he must live—the situation had become not so fantastic. He would sell everything—his father's watch, his jewelry, his clothing, everything but his books. Those he would not part with.
On the corner of Thirty-fifth and Broadway was a pawnshop—he had passed it hundreds of times, but had never thought of entering. Half of it was a store where the pledges were sold; each piece of jewelry had a huge white card on which ran some such legend—"Former price $1,000—now $400." The other half of the shop was where the real "business" was conducted, and it was here that its patrons lost their patrimony. Libro was ashamed to enter; he hesitated two or three times and then returned to his rooms. He picked up old "Omar" in its paper covers, and with the imprint of Bernard Quaritch, 1859, for it was a first edition and much beloved. He then read of wines and the joys of heaven—he could not afford to buy those full orient vintages, but, nevertheless, in the quietude of his rooms, he drank deep.