The little man nodded.
“Quite so, quite so,” he said; “we shall come to that, I dare say.”
“We must, Rimall.” And Miltoun turned the page.
The little man's face quivered.
“I don't think,” he said, “that book's quite strong enough for you, my lord, with your taste for reading. Now I've a most curious old volume here—on Chinese temples. It's rare—but not too old. You can peruse it thoroughly. It's what I call a book to browse on just suit your palate. Funny principle they built those things on,” he added, opening the volume at an engraving, “in layers. We don't build like that in England.”
Miltoun looked up sharply; the little man's face wore no signs of understanding.
“Unfortunately we don't, Rimall,” he said; “we ought to, and we shall. I'll take this book.”
Placing his finger on the print of the pagoda, he added: “A good symbol.”
The little bookseller's eye strayed down the temple to the secret price mark.
“Exactly, my lord,” he said; “I thought it'd be your fancy. The price to you will be twenty-seven and six.”