‘Twenty years at least.  She’s about forty, I think.’  I mused for a few moments.

‘After all, it isn’t an unhappy marriage?’

‘Unhappy?’ cried Pomfret.  ’Why, there’s never been a disagreeable word between them, that I’ll warrant.  Once Christopherson gets over the change, they’ll have nothing more in the world to ask for.  He’ll potter over his books—­’

‘You mean to tell me,’ I interrupted, ’that those books have all been bought out of his wife’s thirty shillings a week?’

’No, no.  To begin with, he kept a few out of his old library.  Then, when he was earning his own living, he bought a great many.  He told me once that he’s often lived on sixpence a day to have money for books.  A rum old owl; but for all that he’s a gentleman, and you can’t help liking him.  I shall be sorry when he’s out of reach.’

For my own part, I wished nothing better than to hear of Christopherson’s departure.  The story I had heard made me uncomfortable.  It was good to think of that poor woman rescued at last from her life of toil, and in these days of midsummer free to enjoy the country she loved.  A touch of envy mingled, I confess, with my thought of Christopherson, who henceforth had not a care in the world, and without reproach might delight in his hoarded volumes.  One could not imagine that he would suffer seriously by the removal of his old haunts.  I promised myself to call on him in a day or two.  By choosing Sunday, I might perhaps be lucky enough to see his wife.

And on Sunday afternoon I was on the point of setting forth to pay this visit, when in came Pomfret.  He wore a surly look, and kicked clumsily against the furniture as he crossed the room.  His appearance was a surprise, for, though I had given him my address, I did not in the least expect that he would come to see me; a certain pride, I suppose, characteristic of his rugged strain, having always made him shy of such intimacy.

‘Did you ever hear the like of that!’ he shouted, half angrily.  ’It’s all over.  They’re not going!  And all because of those blamed books!’

And spluttering and growling, he made known what he had just learnt at his aunt’s home.  On the previous afternoon the Christophersons had been surprised by a visit from their relatives and would-be benefactress, Mrs. Keeting.  Never before had that lady called upon them; she came, no doubt (this could only be conjectured), to speak with them of their approaching removal.  The close of the conversation (a very brief one) was overheard by the landlady, for Mrs. Keeting spoke loudly as she descended the stairs.  ’Impossible!  Quite impossible!  I couldn’t think of it!  How could you dream for a moment that I would let you fill my house with musty old books?  Most unhealthy!  I never knew anything so extraordinary in my life, never!’ And so she went out to her carriage, and was driven away.  And the landlady, presently having occasion