THE GOLDEN AGE
crust of legend was already beginning to form; to myself an object of special awe, in that he was alleged to have written a real book. 'Heaps o' books,' Martha, my informant, said; but I knew the exact rate of discount applicable to Martha's statements.
We passed eventually through a dark hall into a room which struck me at once as the ideal I had dreamed but failed to find. None of your feminine fripperies here! None of your chair-backs and tidies! This man, it was seen, groaned under no aunts. Stout volumes in calf and vellum lined three sides; books sprawled or hunched themselves on chairs and tables; books diffused the pleasant odour of printers' ink and bindings; topping all, a faint aroma of tobacco cheered and heartened exceedingly, as under foreign skies the flap and rustle over the wayfarer's head of the Union Jack—the old flag of emancipation! And in one corner, book-piled like the rest of the furniture, stood a piano.
This I hailed with a squeal of delight. 'Want to strum?' inquired my friend, as if
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