[201:A] 'One day [writes Lytton] three persons were standing before an old bookstall in a passage leading from Oxford Street into Tottenham Court Road. Two were gentlemen; the third, of the class and appearance of those who more habitually halt at old bookstalls.
'"Look," said one of the gentlemen to the other; "I have discovered here what I have searched for in vain the last ten years—the Horace of 1580, the Horace of the Forty Commentators—a perfect treasury of learning, and marked only fourteen shillings!"
'"Hush, Norreys," said the other, "and observe what is yet more worth your study;" and he pointed to the third bystander, whose face, sharp and attenuated, was bent with an absorbed, and, as it were, with a hungering attention over an old worm-eaten volume.
'"What is the book, my lord?" whispered Mr. Norreys.
'His companion smiled, and replied by another question: "What is the man who reads the book?"
'Mr. Norreys moved a few paces, and looked over the student's shoulder. "'Preston's Translation of Boethius,' 'The Consolations of Philosophy,'" he said, coming back to his friend.
'"He looks as if he wanted all the consolations philosophy could give him, poor boy!"
'When Mr. Norreys had bought the Horace, and given an address where to send it, Harley (the second gentleman) asked the shopman if he knew the young man who had been reading Boethius.
'"Only by sight. He has come here every day the last week, and spends hours at the stall. When once he fastens on a book, he reads it through."