Charlie accepted the book with respect. Its edges were gilt, and the paper thin and soft. Edwin looked over his shoulder, and saw the title-page of Victor Hugo’s “Notre-Dame de Paris,” in French. The volume had a most romantic, foreign, even exotic air. Edwin desired it fervently, or something that might rank equal with it.
“How much did they stick you for this lot?” asked Charlie.
Tom held up one finger.
“Quid?” Charlie wanted to be sure. Tom nodded.
“Cheap as dirt, of course!” said Tom. “Binding’s worth more than that. Look at the other volumes. Look at them!”
“Pity it’s only a second edition,” said Charlie.
“Well, damn it, man! One can’t have everything.”
Charlie passed the volume to Edwin, who fingered it with the strangest delight. Was it possible that this exquisitely delicate and uncustomary treasure, which seemed to exhale all the charm of France and the savour of her history, had been found at Stafford? He had been to Stafford himself. He had read “Notre-Dame” himself, but in English, out of a common book like any common book—not out of a bibelot.
“You’ve read it, of course, Clayhanger?” Tom said.
“Oh!” Edwin answered humbly. “Only in a translation.” Yet there was a certain falseness in his humility, for he was proud of having read the work. What sort of a duffer would he have appeared had he been obliged to reply ‘No’?