He bowed slightly, and awaited the expression of her wish. "I shall recommend something of Barrie's; or else 'Lorna Doone,'" he reflected.
"May I be seated?" asked Phyllis.
"My me! My me!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlandson. "Here is a chair. I beg your pardon Mrs. Landless." He seated himself on the third step of the convenient ladder, leaning against the high, book-laden shelves.
"You cannot imagine the nature of my errand," began Phyllis. It was dreadfully hard to go on. Her eyes were brimming, but they should not overflow if she could help it.
Mr. Rowlandson looked at the parcel in her lap; and then at her face; and then at the parcel again. She was not the first embarrassed visitor he had seen—nor the twenty-first.
"Shall I untie this for you?" he asked gently.
Phyllis nodded; she could not speak.
About twenty of the prettiest valentines were in the parcel. Mr. Rowlandson laid them on a little table and looked through them quietly, while Phyllis recovered her composure.
"May I see if I can save your feelings a little?" his pleasant voice said finally. "Mrs. Farquharson has told me of your—your quarrel with Sir Peter. A pity; a great pity. And so, perhaps I can guess the rest. The profession of poetry, inspiring as it is, is not—not exactly remunerative; not—not in a large way. No, I fancy the returns are not what you would call—well, say, generous. Things are not going quite so smoothly and easily for you as you—that is, as they should for two young people who have just started life together. And so it occurred to you that these old valentines might be sacri—sold, to help, a little."
He paused; Phyllis's handkerchief was at her eyes.