"Isn't that an unusual name for a cat?" she asked, when told of it.

Mr. Rowlandson's eyes twinkled and he began to quote, straightway. His voice was pleasant to hear:--

"'Twas on a lofty vase's side Where China's gayest art had dy'd The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclin'd Gazed on the lake below.

"Thomas Gray, the poet, Mrs. Landless. The cat is historic. She was one of Horace Walpole's pets at Strawberry Hill, his country-seat, when Gray visited him there. Gray's first book was printed privately by Horace, who had ample means and recognized genius. The book is scarce now; it fetches five pounds and upward."

He resumed the quotation:--

"Still had she gaz'd; but midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam.

"The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize.

What female heart can gold despise?

What Cat's averse to fish?

"Your husband doubtless knows the poem, Mrs. Landless. Mrs. F. tells me he writes poetry himself. Some one once said of Gray that no other poet entered the portals of fame with so slender a volume under his arm. He wrote very little, Mrs. Landless, but he polished every letter of every word until the lines were flawless as the facets of a diamond."

"Did puss get the fish?" asked Phyllis, stooping to stroke Selima's sleek, gray side again.

"No," replied Mr. Rowlandson. "'The slipp'ry verge her feet beguil'd, she tumbled headlong in.' But cats have nine lives, you know.

"Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry G.o.d Some speedy aid to send.

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.

A Fav'rite has no friend.

"Now comes the moral," he continued. "Poets, in those days realized their obligation to society: to tell it something for its own good."

His eyes twinkled again; bright blue they were; friendly eyes, Phyllis thought.

"From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retriev'd, And be with caution bold.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold."

Mr. Rowlandson concluded, smiling. Phyllis returned his smile. The task before her was still difficult, but she felt she had known this dear old man a long, long time. She took the plunge.

"Mr. Rowlandson, I came in to thank you for letting me see your patch-boxes and fans; and to thank you, also, for having directed Mr.

Landless to Farquharson's house. But there was something else,--too."

She caught her breath prettily, in that quick way of hers. "It is a--a matter of--of business."

He bowed slightly, and awaited the expression of her wish. "I shall recommend something of Barrie's; or else 'Lorna Doone,'" he reflected.

"May I be seated?" asked Phyllis.

"My me! My me!" exclaimed Mr. Rowlandson. "Here is a chair. I beg your pardon Mrs. Landless." He seated himself on the third step of the convenient ladder, leaning against the high, book-laden shelves.

"You cannot imagine the nature of my errand," began Phyllis. It was dreadfully hard to go on. Her eyes were br.i.m.m.i.n.g, but they should not overflow if she could help it.

Mr. Rowlandson looked at the parcel in her lap; and then at her face; and then at the parcel again. She was not the first embarra.s.sed visitor he had seen--nor the twenty-first.

"Shall I untie this for you?" he asked gently.

Phyllis nodded; she could not speak.

About twenty of the prettiest valentines were in the parcel. Mr.

Rowlandson laid them on a little table and looked through them quietly, while Phyllis recovered her composure.

"May I see if I can save your feelings a little?" his pleasant voice said finally. "Mrs. Farquharson has told me of your--your quarrel with Sir Peter. A pity; a great pity. And so, perhaps I can guess the rest.

The profession of poetry, inspiring as it is, is not--not exactly remunerative; not--not in a large way. No, I fancy the returns are not what you would call--well, say, generous. Things are not going quite so smoothly and easily for you as you--that is, as they should for two young people who have just started life together. And so it occurred to you that these old valentines might be sacri--sold, to help, a little."

He paused; Phyllis's handkerchief was at her eyes.

"Ah, yes," he added, "I feared that was it."

He gazed thoughtfully out of the window before he continued:--

"I am very sorry, my dear young lady. I am really very sorry. But I find it necessary to confine my purchases strictly to books. My me! Yes, strictly to books. If you had a few books, now, that you had ceased to care for, I might allow you something eh?"

"I have only the valentines, Mr. Rowlandson" said Phyllis. "It was very silly and wrong for me to come to you. I can see that now. Of course, you only buy and sell books."

"Except when commissioned by customers," said Mr. Rowlandson. "An invariable rule. If I could break it for any one, I--"

"You have been very kind," said Phyllis, rising. "So kind that I think I cannot leave you under a misapprehension. Mr. Landless's income is quite sufficient for our modest needs." A sudden thought made her heart beat rapidly. "Oh, Mr. Rowlandson! You must not think he knows I am here!

Although, of course, I meant to tell him if--if I had been successful."

She hesitated again, and then, with a little appealing gesture, went hurriedly on.

"I think I should be quite frank with you. Mr. Landless has a book of poems--I mean--poems enough to make a book. But, although he has tried everywhere, he cannot find a publisher who is willing to undertake his little book. It is such a very little one, too. One firm of publishers offered to issue it if he would pay the cost, amounting to about fifty pounds. They wanted the copyright, too, but they have yielded that point. Farquharson told me you said that my uncle paid nearly two hundred pounds for my valentines when--at the time of my father's sale; and I thought, perhaps--perhaps----Do you see? I brought a few of the prettiest ones to show you. I thought you might have forgotten how pretty they are. I want so badly to have John's book published, because he is certain to succeed if only this first little book can be brought out."

The bookseller made no reply. He sat on the step of the ladder, gazing absently out of the window, over Phyllis's head.

Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, you old sentimentalist, with your faded old patch-boxes and tattered old fans. You very nearly said something then, quite out of the line of trade. Fortunately you thought it over, for a minute or two, while Phyllis turned her pretty eyes away, to hide the tears that filled them. Be careful, Samuel Rowlandson, or you will say it now, as she tries to smile at you, with the corners of her sweet mouth trembling. Be care--It is of no use; he will say it.

"I have thought of a way I might be of service to you," said Mr.

Rowlandson meditatively. "You see--it is not as though I did not know the value of that collection of valentines. They are worth one hundred pounds, at the lowest figure. Now--if you would not take offense, and you should not, I am sure, when no offense is meant; I might offer to lend you--say, fifty pounds, or half their lowest value, accepting the valentines as security, and--"

Phyllis's face lighted eagerly; then clouded again.

"But, Mr. Rowlandson," she objected, "that wouldn't be--quite--you know--businesslike, would it? I shouldn't like to do anything that John would feel was not quite regular and proper."

Mr. Rowlandson swallowed something in his throat.

"I should make it very businesslike, indeed by asking you to sign a note; drawn in the strictest, legal terms," he said gravely. "And I should charge you interest, at the rate of five per cent, payable half-yearly; on the appointed day."

Phyllis considered his face with serious eyes; Mr. Rowlandson slowly repeated:--

"Five percent? payable half-yearly; on the appointed day."