"Ah, yes," he added, "I feared that was it."
He gazed thoughtfully out of the window before he continued:—
"I am very sorry, my dear young lady. I am really very sorry. But I find it necessary to confine my purchases strictly to books. My me! Yes, strictly to books. If you had a few books, now, that you had ceased to care for, I might allow you something eh?"
"I have only the valentines, Mr. Rowlandson" said Phyllis. "It was very silly and wrong for me to come to you. I can see that now. Of course, you only buy and sell books."
"Except when commissioned by customers," said Mr. Rowlandson. "An invariable rule. If I could break it for any one, I—"
"You have been very kind," said Phyllis, rising. "So kind that I think I cannot leave you under a misapprehension. Mr. Landless's income is quite sufficient for our modest needs." A sudden thought made her heart beat rapidly. "Oh, Mr. Rowlandson! You must not think he knows I am here! Although, of course, I meant to tell him if—if I had been successful."
She hesitated again, and then, with a little appealing gesture, went hurriedly on.
"I think I should be quite frank with you. Mr. Landless has a book of poems—I mean—poems enough to make a book. But, although he has tried everywhere, he cannot find a publisher who is willing to undertake his little book. It is such a very little one, too. One firm of publishers offered to issue it if he would pay the cost, amounting to about fifty pounds. They wanted the copyright, too, but they have yielded that point. Farquharson told me you said that my uncle paid nearly two hundred pounds for my valentines when—at the time of my father's sale; and I thought, perhaps—perhaps——Do you see? I brought a few of the prettiest ones to show you. I thought you might have forgotten how pretty they are. I want so badly to have John's book published, because he is certain to succeed if only this first little book can be brought out."
The bookseller made no reply. He sat on the step of the ladder, gazing absently out of the window, over Phyllis's head.
Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, you old sentimentalist, with your faded old patch-boxes and tattered old fans. You very nearly said something then, quite out of the line of trade. Fortunately you thought it over, for a minute or two, while Phyllis turned her pretty eyes away, to hide the tears that filled them. Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, or you will say it now, as she tries to smile at you, with the corners of her sweet mouth trembling. Be care—It is of no use; he will say it.