Hooker said nothing. Bibliophiles are not missionaries. They do not go into the by-ways of the world to uphold their creeds, for the love of books is such a wonderful thing that it can never be explained!

When he left Miss Blaythwaite that night, he felt that the breviary was farther from him than ever.

Hooker, however, came swiftly to a decision.

The only way he could obtain the Abelard Missal, was by marrying Miss Blaythwaite. The next evening he called, with this firmly fixed in his mind. This wily, calculating book-worm had slowly crept into her affections. He knew she liked him, but would she marry him?

He asked her with great fervor, which was a.s.sumed, whether she would become his wife. He waited breathlessly for her answer.

"I want to be frank with you, Robert," she said. "I do not think you love me."

"How can you say such a thing?"

"Instinctively, I feel it. I like you, but I cannot marry you."

"Why not? Is there someone else?"

Miss Blaythwaite smiled.

"Yes."

"I never dreamed of it. Of course I might have known."

"You do know, Robert."

"Is it Jack Worthing?"

"No."

"Then, who is it?"

"It's that old missal. You are more in love with _that_, than you are with me. I can see it in your eyes, in your talk, in everything. If I were not its owner, you would never come near me."

"Then you will not marry me?"

"No, I cannot. Do you know, Robert, I've become actually jealous of that breviary, and intend to present it to some library or museum! It ought, by right, to go to the Metropolitan."

"For G.o.d's sake," Hooker cried in mortal anguish, "do anything but that!"

For over six months the forlorn bibliophile remained away from the Lady of the Breviary. Somehow or other, it was not the missal which was foremost in his thoughts. His books, his autographs, his porcelains, his engravings had no longer the charm they once had. He no longer took an interest in the auction-sales, and the catalogues that came to him would lie neglected upon his desk.

He looked with particular distaste upon the "Three Trees" and the "Unpublishable Memoirs" and the Shakespeare-Bacon volume. He even thought of returning them to their owners! The great inst.i.tute to be founded and called after his name, was a thing of the past! He had acted like a cad, he said to himself. To marry a woman for an old book was almost as bad as marrying for money!

One evening, Hooker came to the conclusion that he could not stand this loneliness, this desolation, any longer. He intended to leave the country, to wander in foreign lands! He would call again upon Miss Blaythwaite for the last time, but would she receive him?

His heart was beating rapidly when the maid told him she was in, and would see him.

And there was Jack Worthing with her, looking big and manly, and courageous as ever!

Miss Blaythwaite seemed delighted to see him. A sudden joy seemed to overspread her features! And Hooker noticed things about her he had never noticed before. He saw the appealing dimples in her cheeks--the fine hair blowing near the temples--the exquisite shape of her ears--the wonderful turquoise-blue of her eyes!

And Jack Worthing was talking of books! A miracle had happened!

Somehow or other, Miss Blaythwaite seemed to take a decided interest in the library left her by her father, and during the last half of the year, she was continually speaking to Worthing of first editions and Caxtons; of Elzevirs and typography; of Americana, incunabula and such ridiculous things, and all in a jargon that was quite unintelligible to him. And Worthing determined to study the things she liked, and borrowed some reference-books from a library that told of the mysteries of the book-lovers' cult. And when Hooker heard Worthing speak of the rare first edition of Poe's Tamerlane, he almost fainted with surprise!

"Don't you want to look over father's books, Mr. Hooker," asked Miss Blaythwaite. "You may go in the library as usual, and make yourself at home. I have added a few things myself!"

"No, thank you, I'd rather remain here. Which side do you think will win the polo match to-morrow? Meadowbrook?"

At this, Miss Blaythwaite and Worthing looked at each other in astonishment. Hooker thought he saw a mysterious understanding between them. He became at once insanely jealous of the athletic young man who was discoursing so eloquently of Tamerlane "in boards, uncut."

"Meadowbrook?" persisted Hooker.

"I suppose so," returned Worthing, in an uninterested manner.

Yes, this talk of books had become decidedly distasteful to the once enthusiastic bibliophile.

"By the way, Mr. Hooker," said Miss Blaythwaite, "I've made up my mind about the Abelard missal. Jack and I think it would be a good thing to give it to the Metropolitan Museum."

"I quite agree with you, Miss Blaythwaite," said poor Hooker. "There it would always be safe from fire, and could be seen by the public. It is certainly the proper thing to do."

At this, Miss Blaythwaite seemed overjoyed.

When Worthing left, after an interminable time, Robert Hooker sat by her side upon the old Chippendale sofa in her father's library. When she discoursed of books and learning, he would quietly change the subject.

He wanted to hear about herself, and what she had been doing since he saw her last. As for himself--he was going away. He was taking a steamer next Sat.u.r.day for Europe.

She asked him quietly if he did not want to take a last look at the breviary.

"d.a.m.n the breviary!" he said to himself. He did not care particularly about it, but she insisted.

He took the precious volume from its place on the shelf, and together they looked at the marvelous ill.u.s.trations that traced so vividly the history of the two devoted lovers.

They glanced not at the calendar, or the litany that came first in the breviary, but bent their heads over the lovely miniatures that narrated so touchingly the tragic story.

When they came to the picture showing the final parting of Abelard from his beloved Heloise, Hooker looked at Miss Blaythwaite.

Her eyes were filled with tears.

"Robert," she said tenderly, "I'm not going to present it to the Metropolitan. I'll give it to the Hooker Museum! Then--we _both_ can always enjoy it."

THE EVASIVE PAMPHLET

He was disappointed again!

He sat alone in his office thinking of the auction sale of the day before. A copy of the rare first edition of "The Murders in the Rue Morgue," the immortal story of Edgar Allan Poe, was lost to him and his heirs for ever more.