The bookseller nodded.
“Just come up?” he inquired.
“To-day,” Michael confessed.
“And what sort of books are you interested in?”
“All books,” said Michael.
“This set of Pater for instance,” the bookseller suggested, handing Michael a volume bound in thick sea-green cloth and richly stamped with a golden monogram. “Nine volumes. Seven pounds ten, or six pounds fifteen cash.” This information he added in a note of disdainful tolerance.
Michael shook his head and looked amused by the offer.
“Of course, nobody really cares for books nowadays,” Mr. Lampard went on. “In the early ‘nineties it was different. Then everybody cared for books.”
Michael resented this slur upon the generation to which he belonged.
“Seven pounds ten,” he repeated doubtfully. How well those solid sea-green volumes would become the stately bookshelves of his room.