Within the house were several shelves of books well selected, and the walls were adorned with capital prints of famous works of art. “They are chiefly what are called books of reference,” said Thornberry, as Endymion was noticing his volumes; “but I have not much room, and, to tell you the truth, they are not merely books of reference to me—I like reading encyclopaedia. The ‘Dictionary of Dates’ is a favourite book of mine. The mind sometimes wants tone, and then I read Milton. He is the only poet I read—he is complete, and is enough. I have got his prose works too. Milton was the greatest of Englishmen.”
The repast was simple, but plenteous, and nothing could be neater than the manner in which it was served.
“We are teetotallers,” said Thornberry; “but we can give you a good cup of coffee.”
“I am a teetotaller too at this time of the day,” said Endymion; “but a good cup of coffee is, they say, the most delicious and the rarest beverage in the world.”
“Well,” continued Thornberry; “it is a long time since we met, Mr. Ferrars—ten years. I used to think that in ten years one might do anything; and a year ago, I really thought I had done it; but the accursed laws of this blessed country, as it calls itself, have nearly broken me, as they have broken many a better man before me.”
“I am sorry to hear this,” said Endymion; “I trust it is but a passing cloud.”
“It is not a cloud,” said Thornberry; “it is a storm, a tempest, a wreck—but not only for me. Your great relative, my Lord Roehampton, must look to it, I can tell you that. What is happening in this country, and is about to happen, will not be cured or averted by commercial treaties—mark my words.”
“But what would cure it?” said Endymion.
“There is only one thing that can cure this country, and it will soon be too late for that. We must have free exchange.”
“Free exchange!” murmured Endymion thoughtfully.