Cornelius became rather fidgety, for he saw that the paper which Mr. Riches had mentioned lay upon the open page, and was covered with writing.
"You write yourself, my friend," observed Mr. Riches. "Will you allow me...?"
"No," answered his host, casting down his eyes. "That is, I do not write. I may sometimes jot down a thought, if a bit of paper is at hand. I cannot bear to defile the margins of my books."
"Mischievous vanity of readers," said the chaplain. "But, Mr. Peach, I like these remarks very much. Did you never print? Confess. You have caught Sir Thomas's spirit exactly." Cornelius coloured a little.
"No," said he. "Never. I have nothing to confess."
Polydore lighted his pipe, and sat down by the side of the chimney, just out of the glare of the fire. Miss Peach had retired, and the old bachelors were alone. They smoked in silence for a considerable time.
"There was a time," at length the host murmured, "when I thought I should like to print. It was when I was courting my Mabel. I fancied it would be so pleasant to present her with a volume of my own inditing. She would be proud of me. She would hear me spoken of, and would say in her heart—he belongs to me. But there was another side to the medal, something whispered me, and I had not the courage. The early ambition passed away."
"Well," said Polydore, "I was this morning singularly reminded that I had been one of the irritable race."
The old clerk's face beamed radiant among the circumambient fumes.
"You, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, and then begged pardon for the expression of surprise.