“Every one, you see, sir,” he said, “going the same way! Dust to dust!”
“If they're all going that way,” remarked the young man, “it would cost every stick on the estate to rebind them!”
“I should be sorry to rebind any of them. An old binding is like an old picture! Just look at this French binding! It's very dingy, and a good deal broken, but you never see anything like that nowadays—as mellow as modest, and as rich as roses! Here's one says the same thing as your grand hall out there, only in a piping voice.”
Lestrange was not exactly stuck-up; he had feared the fellow was bumptious, and felt there was no knowing what he might say next, but by this time had ceased to imagine his dignity in danger. The young blacksmith's admiration of the books and of the hall pleased him, and he became more cordial.
“Do you say all russia-leather behaves in the same fashion?” he asked.
“Yes, now. I fancy it did not some years ago. There may be some change in the preparation of the leather. I don't know. It is a great pity! Russia is lovely to the eye—and to the nostrils.—May I take a look at some of the old books, sir?”
“What do you call an old book?”
“One not later, say, than the time of James the First.—Have you a first folio, sir?”
Lestrange was thinking of his coming baronetcy.
“First folio?” he answered absently. “I dare say you will find a good many first folios on the shelves!”