he read. "Funny way of spelling 'desert,' a, r, t. But this is very interesting. 'Full many a flower——' So that's Gray, is it? Very interesting." He was quite uplifted by the sight of familiar words in an old book. "It's very clean inside. Suppose it's worth a lot of money. I'm sure you're very generous, very generous indeed." Violet paused in making up the second parcel.
"Well," said Mr. Earlforward, uplifted in his turn by reason of the epithet "generous" applied to him. "I don't know without inquiring just what it is worth. That's the sporting offer."
"I wouldn't mind giving a couple of pounds for it myself. I should like it.
"'Far from the madding crowd——,'
"Well, well! And one of the earlier editions, you say?"
"Not earliest of the Elegy. Earliest of the collected poems."
"Just so! Just so! Two pounds a fair price?"
"I'm afraid it's worth more than that, at the worst," said Mr. Earlforward, suddenly grieved. He saw to what an extent he was making a fool of himself—losing pounds in order to save a ten-shilling note! Ridiculous! Idiotic! Mad! True, he had bought the book for ten shillings, and he strove to regard the transaction from the angle of his own disbursement. But he could not deny that he was losing pounds. Yes, pounds and pounds. Still, he could not have let the ten-shilling note go. A ten-shilling note was a treasure, whereas a book was only a book. Illogical, but instinct was more powerful than logic.
"Ah!" said the doctor. "If it's worth more than two pounds I must sell it. You're generous. Mr. Earlforward, you're generous. Thank you."
Violet rearranged the second parcel, including the Gray in it, while Dr. Raste expanded further in gratitude.