A quarter of an hour after the visitor’s departure Reardon came back. Amy had guessed aright; the necessity of selling his books weighed upon him so that for the present he could do nothing. The evening was spent gloomily, with very little conversation.
Next day came the bookseller to make his inspection. Reardon had chosen out and ranged upon a table nearly a hundred volumes. With a few exceptions, they had been purchased second-hand. The tradesman examined them rapidly.
‘What do you ask?’ he inquired, putting his head aside.
‘I prefer that you should make an offer,’ Reardon replied, with the helplessness of one who lives remote from traffic.
‘I can’t say more than two pounds ten.’
‘That is at the rate of sixpence a volume—-?’
‘To me that’s about the average value of books like these.’
Perhaps the offer was a fair one; perhaps it was not. Reardon had neither time nor spirit to test the possibilities of the market; he was ashamed to betray his need by higgling.
‘I’ll take it,’ he said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
A messenger was sent for the books that afternoon. He stowed them skilfully in two bags, and carried them downstairs to a cart that was waiting.