The widow hesitated. She had pitied Antoine so many years that the next step was not so difficult to take. His terrible absorption in his books had always been a mighty barrier between them; with that removed, Antoine might prove really companionable.
He poured forth pitiful accounts of his endeavors to cook meals for himself on a wretched oil-stove up in his bedroom. He pictured his attempts to keep the coffee-grounds out of his cup, and his vain efforts to manufacture good oatmeal porridge. And then the widow thought of her own bright amber coffee and well-cooked breakfast food, and her compassion finally triumphed.
II.
Antoine was seated in his library, in his one easy-chair; before him stood a small table on which were spread some of his dearest treasures.
First, his Shakespeare Quarto, that prize which by a lucky chance had fallen to his lot. He turned its leaves with gentle, reverent touch. How many book-lovers had coveted it and had endeavored to get possession of it! He thought of the round price that it would bring, and closed it with a stifled sigh. He took up one of his pet volumes of the early dramatists and ran it through with loving touch. Beside it lay some of his first editions,—Walton, Ruskin, Rossetti; Hazlitt, Keats, and others,—dear to his heart. What a magnificent specimen of printing this little book contained! And where might one procure a finer bit of binding than that which he now held with tender care. Ah, how that set of Chaucer would be snapped up by Wilkinson or Whitely!
He plunged his hands deep in his pockets and whistled gayly and stamped about his rooms and eyed his volumes carelessly, and sought his bed, clinging to the glad vision of the petite and pretty widow, whose light touch upon his forehead had set his heart a-thumping, and whose unrivalled muffins and peach preserve remained fixed in his waking consciousness.
Wrapped in these pleasant thoughts he fell asleep, and dreamed, not of the widow, but of his Shakespeare Quarto.
This was not strange, because, like all his fellow-men, he was a poor, weak creature of habit, who needed to be very much on with the new love before he could be wholly off with the first mistress of his heart.
Antoine had decided upon one line of conduct regarding the sale of his rare volumes. He would not haggle over them, nor suffer the prolonged agony of parting with them one by one; but, having notified the various dealers of his intention, he would accept the largest lump-sum offered him; then let the curtain fall upon one act of his small individual drama.
In the days which ensued Antoine seemed a changed being. He had
