The old man let one arm fall to his side with visible disappointment, which he vainly sought to conceal.
“I am sorry,” he said, simply, taking Inez’ hand in his own. “I have known this dear friend for many years, and have loved him for the love he gave to my work. I had hoped to greet his wife here, and to find that the literæ humaniores were to her the elixir of life that they are to me—and to him.”
“When I tell her of my visit she will be eager to come to you as I have,” said Inez, strangely touched by the keenness of his disappointment. “To-day she could not leave her guests.”
“Will you first show Miss Thayer the illuminations and the rarest of the incunabula?” asked Armstrong, eager to change the subject; “and then will you let us come back here to talk with you?”
“With pleasure, my son, with pleasure. What shall I show her first?”
“That little ‘Book of Hours’ illuminated by Francesco d’Antonio, padre.”
Cerini pulled up the great bunch of keys suspended from the end of his girdle and unlocked one of the drawers in the ancient wooden desk in front of him.
“I always wonder how you dare keep so priceless a treasure in that desk, and why it is not put on exhibition where visitors may see it,” Armstrong queried.
Cerini laughed quietly. “There are many other treasures, my son, equally precious, as you know well, scattered about in these desks and drawers, where I alone can find them.”