A smile flickered across Sir Peter's face; he liked the old bookseller's sturdy, independent ways. He had been dealing with him for a quarter of a century.
"My lad failed me to-day," Mr. Rowlandson explained, "and as I had an old print of Charterhouse to be delivered to a customer, not far from here, I thought I would bring you something that came this morning—a book. A book for which you have waited a long time."
Sir Peter drew his eyeglass from his pocket, and straightened the heavy, black silk cord.
"Well, well!" said he, when Mr. Rowlandson handed him the book, opened at the title-page, with a little air of triumph. "The 'Proceedings' for 1848. This volume completes my set. It has given you a good bit of trouble, eh?" He leafed it through, and examined one of the plates with interest.
"Oh, nothing to speak of," replied the bookseller, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, nevertheless.
Sir Peter drew a check-book from a drawer; the amount was named.
"Take a chair, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. The check was written. Mr. Rowlandson folded it precisely and put it into his pocketbook. They sat for a moment or two without speaking. If the bookseller was expected to take his departure, Sir Peter was too courteous to say so.
"Will you drink a glass of sherry?" he asked, and touched a button, near the fireplace. The sherry was served. The old bookseller squinted through his glass at the light.
"About the same date as the 'Proceedings,' or thereabouts?" he remarked interrogatively.
Sir Peter nodded. "Fifty-two. A choice year."