"But I—"
"Oh, by all means, Bertram," said Letitia, "we must subscribe."
The Egyptologist swallowed hard.
"I think—" he began.
"Bertram Weatherby is the name, Mr. Percival," said Letitia, in a clear, insistent tone, and at her bidding the little man scrawled it down, but so tremulously at first that he tore up the sheet and tried again.
"And the subscription price?" I inquired, opening my pocket-book.
"You—you needn't pay now, doctor," he replied.
"Is one dollar a year," said Letitia, promptly, and I laid the bill upon the desk.
Hiram Ptolemy touched it gingerly, fumbled it, dropped it by his chair, and, still preserving his embarrassed silence, fished it up again from the cluttered floor. Ten minutes later, when we said farewell to him, he still held it in his hand.
"What was the matter with him?" I asked Letitia, as we drove away, glancing back at that odd and shamefaced figure standing wistfully in the doorway.