"It really sounds quite--quite businesslike and regular," she said. "Are you certain you can spare so large a sum?--without the slightest inconvenience?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: ARE YOU CERTAIN YOU CAN SPARE SO LARGE A SUM?]

"Quite certain," said Mr. Rowlandson; and then added, "I always have a little ready money laid by--waiting for a really safe investment--like this one--at five per cent."

Half an hour later Phyllis shook hands with the old bookseller. She had an afterthought.

"A few of the valentines are framed. Does that make any difference? And, tell me, Mr. Rowlandson, how can they be taken from our rooms and delivered at your shop?"

"Well, now," said Mr. Rowlandson, pondering, "I am so much afraid of fire in the shop it would really be a favor to me if you would let them remain where they are--for the present; for the present, at least."

Phyllis shook hands again. The little bell tinkled. She was gone. In her purse were five ten-pound notes. In her heart was a glad song.

Through the shop-window, Mr. Rowlandson watched her cross the street swiftly. Then he turned. The valentines lay on the table, where she had left them,--samples of the wares she brought to market. He wrapped them, tied the parcel neatly, and carried it back to his desk. The square, black volume labeled "Proceedings of the British Engineering Society"

caught his attention. He stared at it for some moments Then his blue eyes twinkled.

IX

The copper coffee percolator bubbled genially on the snowy dinner table.

John and Phyllis were seated. Mrs. Farquharson set the soup tureen before him, and hovered near. In the small grate a fire blazed cheerfully; the firelight gleamed on the fine mahogany and ivory inlay of the Sheraton desk. There lay John's ma.n.u.script,--returned this afternoon from Oxford, with the stereotyped politeness that was so disheartening.

Phyllis's suppressed excitement gave her cheeks their color; John feigned higher spirits than the occasion warranted; he made a point of eating his soup; Phyllis tasted hers.

Mrs. Farquharson served the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding (her specialty), received due plaudits, and withdrew. John attacked the dinner; Phyllis's fork toyed with her greens. The all-important subject was not mentioned until Genevieve had cleared the table. Phyllis pa.s.sed John a small cup of black coffee.

"Well, Phyllis," he said, "Byrne, the Dublin publisher, remains to us.

Oxford declines Cambridge verses."

Then Phyllis, blushing like a rose, laid in his hand the five ten-pound notes. He looked at her with perplexed eyes.

"'"Old Valentines, and Other Poems," by John Landless, will appear shortly,'" she fict.i.tiously quoted. She had read such announcements weekly, in his "Academy."

"Oh, John, those horrid publishers won't retract their offer, will they?"

"My darling girl, where did you get this money?"

"I will tell you all about it, John, dear; but first answer my question? There isn't any doubt, is there? The book can be published now?"

"Why--no; or rather--yes," he said slowly. "If the money is really ours, to do with as we please,--even to embark on so wild an adventure as a book of poems. I can't conceive how you came by it, though, dearest."

John held the ten-pound notes in his hand; he looked at them now, as if half surprised to find them still there.

Then Phyllis told him of her call at Mr. Rowlandson's shop; she remembered every word of the conversation; and came out especially strong on the rigid regularity of the transaction; the signed note, and the five per cent, payable half-yearly, on the appointed day. John's face was a study.

"Oh, Phyllis! Phyllis!" he said softly, when she had finished. "You would have sold your valentines--that you love so dearly! the old valentines that are entwined with your memories of your mother. You would have sold them! For me!"

Phyllis smiled happily at him and gave him both of her hands, across the little dinner table. When he could trust his voice, he said,--

"I am confident of my book. If I were not, of course, I couldn't let you do this, darling; dear as it was of you to think of it,--and to execute it so cleverly--so very cleverly. Old Rowlandson is a brick."

"He is a very shrewd man of business," said Phyllis, looking at John with misgivings "He always has a sum of ready money laid by, for perfectly businesslike investments."

"Of course," he rea.s.sured her.

He knew he could meet the interest on Phyllis's note. As to the princ.i.p.al--well, if worst came to worst he would be justified in breaking his promise to his father that he would never borrow on his expectations. Justified! John could almost see his father's smile of approval.

They sat in the big armchair together, and read the poems to be included in the little book.

"If I succeed in my profession I shall owe it all to you," said John to Phyllis; and, when she would have made remonstrance, he added,--"Ah, my dear, I like to have it so."

At the same hour, that evening, Sir Peter sat before his library fire.

An open magazine lay on his knee, pages downward. He held an unlighted cigar in his hand. He stared moodily into the glowing coals. There were new, sad lines in his stern face.

Burbage entered. "Mr. Rowlandson to see you, sir. A very particular matter, sir, he says."

Sir Peter rose slowly when Mr. Rowlandson was shown into the room. Under his arm were three parcels.

"Glad to see you, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. "How have you been since we met last? H'm. It must be two years, or longer."

"Thank you. I have enjoyed very good health, Sir Peter. Yes, it is all of two years. I hope you are quite well, sir."

"Fair; fair," said Sir Peter.

"We do not get younger as we grow older," observed Mr. Rowlandson. He laid two of the parcels on the big table, under the reading-lamp, and proceeded to untie the other.

A smile flickered across Sir Peter's face; he liked the old bookseller's st.u.r.dy, independent ways. He had been dealing with him for a quarter of a century.

"My lad failed me to-day," Mr. Rowlandson explained, "and as I had an old print of Charterhouse to be delivered to a customer, not far from here, I thought I would bring you something that came this morning--a book. A book for which you have waited a long time."

Sir Peter drew his eyegla.s.s from his pocket, and straightened the heavy, black silk cord.

"Well, well!" said he, when Mr. Rowlandson handed him the book, opened at the t.i.tle-page, with a little air of triumph. "The 'Proceedings' for 1848. This volume completes my set. It has given you a good bit of trouble, eh?" He leafed it through, and examined one of the plates with interest.

"Oh, nothing to speak of," replied the bookseller, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, nevertheless.

Sir Peter drew a check-book from a drawer; the amount was named.

"Take a chair, Rowlandson," said Sir Peter. The check was written. Mr.

Rowlandson folded it precisely and put it into his pocketbook. They sat for a moment or two without speaking. If the bookseller was expected to take his departure, Sir Peter was too courteous to say so.

"Will you drink a gla.s.s of sherry?" he asked, and touched a b.u.t.ton, near the fireplace. The sherry was served. The old bookseller squinted through his gla.s.s at the light.

"About the same date as the 'Proceedings,' or thereabouts?" he remarked interrogatively.