"I tell you what," said David suddenly, "if you'd come to my lodgings one day, you could look at the books I've got and advise me about others. That would be the shortest and pleasantest way."
"By all means," said the historian. "Then you have not yet given away your gifts?"
"Not yet," said David quietly. "I am waiting awhile."
And then he relapsed into silence and timidity, and went on twisting his whip.
Hieronymus was interested, but he had too much delicate feeling to push the inquiry, and not having a mathematical mind he was quite unable to put two and two together without help from another source. So he just went on smoking his pipe, wondering all the time what possible reason his companion could have for collecting a library beginning with Mrs. Hemans.
After a remark about the weather and the crops--Hieronymus was becoming quite agricultural--David rose in an undecided kind of manner, expressed his thanks, and took his leave, but there was evidently something more he wanted to say, and yet he went away without saying it.
"I'm sure he wants to speak about the pastry," thought Hieronymus. "Confound him! Why doesn't he?"
The next moment the door opened, and David put his head in.
"There's something else I wanted to say," he stammered out. "The fact is, I don't tell anybody about the books I buy. It's my own affair, and I like to keep it to myself. But I'm sure I can trust you."
"I should just think you could," Hieronymus answered cheerily.