“Not now, my child,” he interrupted, turning again to his work, not unkindly, but definitely. She stood there, looking at him almost helplessly.
“If you would only give me—say, ten dollars for them⸺” she faltered.
“Impossible,” he said, without looking. “I never pay ten dollars for books—and besides, I don’t need them. I have too many as it is. No doubt they are worth it.” He went on pasting.
“Won’t you give me something for them,” she pleaded, and there was agitation in her tone.
“Sam!” called Masterson to his assistant, still without looking up. “See how much money is in the cash register.”
“Two dollars and thirteen cents, Mr. Masterson,” replied Peters, after a glance, “You made a deposit to-day.”
He looked at the young woman inquiringly.
“Two dollars and thirteen cents,” she murmured, repeating it after him monotonously.
“If that will be of any use to you—” he deprecated.
“Yes, I’ll take it,” she said swiftly. The money was passed over in silence and she went out immediately, leaving the books behind her. The old man turned again to his work. Val Morley sauntered out from his corner.
“Mat,” he said, “you’re an abominable old profiteer, and you’ll come to no good end.” There was no answer. It was as if the bookseller had not even heard.
“I hope, when you die and go to Purgatory, as you surely will,” continued the young man, “that you’ll be condemned to read Harold Bell Wright and Ouida through all eternity, world without end, and have
