“If it was a modern author, instead of Carlyle,” said Roger, “I’d say it was some publicity stunt pulled off by the publishers. You know they go to all manner of queer dodges to get an author’s name in print. But Carlyle’s copyrights expired long ago, so I don’t see the game.”
“I guess he’s picketing your place to try and steal the formula for eggs Samuel Butler,” said Aubrey, and they both laughed.
“You’d better come in and meet my wife and Miss Chapman,” said Roger. The young man made some feeble demur, but it was obvious to the bookseller that he was vastly elated at the idea of making Miss Chapman’s acquaintance.
“Here’s a friend of mine,” said Roger, ushering Aubrey into the little room where Helen and Titania were still sitting by the fire. “Mrs. Mifflin, Mr. Aubrey Gilbert, Miss Chapman, Mr. Gilbert.”
Aubrey was vaguely aware of the rows of books, of the shining coals, of the buxom hostess and the friendly terrier; but with the intense focus of an intelligent young male mind these were all merely appurtenances to the congenial spectacle of the employee. How quickly a young man’s senses assemble and assimilate the data that are really relevant! Without seeming even to look in that direction he had performed the most amazing feat of lightning calculation known to the human faculties. He had added up all the young ladies of his acquaintance, and found the sum total less than the girl before him. He had subtracted the new phenomenon from the universe as he knew it, including the solar system and the advertising business, and found the remainder a minus quantity. He had multiplied the contents of his intellect by a factor he had no reason to assume “constant,” and was startled at what teachers call (I believe) the “product.” And he had divided what was in the left-hand armchair into his own career, and found no room for a quotient. All of which transpired in the length of time necessary for Roger to push forward another chair.
With the politeness desirable in a well-bred youth, Aubrey’s first instinct was to make himself square with the hostess. Resolutely he occluded blue eyes, silk shirtwaist, and admirable chin from his mental vision.
“It’s awfully good of you to let me come in,” he said to Mrs. Mifflin. “I was here the other evening and Mr. Mifflin insisted on my staying to supper with him.”
“I’m very glad to see you,” said Helen. “Roger told me about you. I hope he didn’t poison you with any of his outlandish dishes. Wait till he tries you with brandied peaches à la Harold Bell Wright.”
Aubrey uttered some genial reassurance, still making the supreme sacrifice of keeping his eyes away from where (he felt) they belonged.
“Mr. Gilbert has just had a queer experience,” said Roger. “Tell them about it.”
In the most reckless way, Aubrey permitted himself to be impaled upon a direct and interested flash of blue lightning. “I was having dinner with your father at the Octagon.”
The high tension voltage of that bright blue current felt like ohm sweet ohm, but Aubrey dared not risk too much of it at once. Fearing to blow out a fuse, he turned in panic to Mrs. Mifflin. “You see,” he explained, “I write a good deal of Mr. Chapman’s advertising for him. We had an appointment to discuss some business matters. We’re planning a big barrage on prunes.”
“Dad works much too hard, don’t you think?” said Titania.
Aubrey welcomed this as a pleasant avenue of discussion leading into the parkland of Miss Chapman’s family affairs; but Roger insisted on his telling the story of the chef and the copy of Cromwell.
“And he followed you here?” exclaimed Titania. “What fun! I had no idea the book business was so exciting.”
“Better lock the door tonight, Roger,” said Mrs. Mifflin, “or he may walk off with a set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”
“Why, my dear,” said Roger, “I think this is grand news. Here’s a man, in a humble walk of life, so keen about good books that he even pickets a bookstore on the chance of swiping some. It’s the most encouraging thing I’ve ever heard of. I must write to the Publishers’ Weekly about it.”
“Well,” said Aubrey, “you mustn’t let me interrupt your little party.”
“You’re not interrupting,” said Roger. “We were only reading aloud. Do you know Dickens’ Christmas Stories?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Suppose we go on reading, shall we?”
“Please do.”
“Yes, do go on,” said Titania. “Mr. Mifflin was just reading about a most adorable head waiter in a London chop house.”
Aubrey begged permission to light his pipe, and Roger picked up the book. “But before we read the items of the coffee-room bill,” he said, “I think it only right that we should have a little refreshment. This passage should never be read without something to accompany it. My dear, what do you say to a glass of sherry all round?”
“It is sad to have to confess it,” said Mrs. Mifflin to Titania, “Mr. Mifflin can never read Dickens without having something to drink. I think the sale of Dickens will fall off terribly when prohibition comes in.”
“I once took the trouble to compile a list of the amount of liquor drunk in Dickens’ works,” said Roger, “and I assure you the total was astounding: 7,000 hogsheads, I believe it was. Calculations of that sort are great fun. I have always intended to write a little essay on the rainstorms in the stories of Robert Louis Stevenson. You see R. L. S. was a Scot, and well acquainted with wet weather. Excuse me a moment, I’ll just run down cellar and get up a bottle.”
Roger left the room, and they heard his steps passing down into the cellar. Bock, after the manner of dogs, followed him. The smells of cellars are a rare treat to
