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I am left staring at a list of unwritten chapters. A list as long as that of those chapters included in my book or else eliminated lest the volume should swell to the size of the London Directory or to one of those portentous catalogues which Mr. Bernard Quaritch used to put forth in the days when I first began to love books, not merely for their contents, but as books.
And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose And the sea whereunto it goes." Some such Indian summer of delight and forgetfulness of trouble, and the tragic condition of our days, was now opening to Harold Quaritch and Ida de la Molle.
Bernard Quaritch just come from his well-known habitat, No. 15 Piccadilly, with such a collection of rare, beautiful, and somewhat expensive volumes as the Western Continent never saw before on the shelves of a bibliopole. We bookworms are all of us now and then betrayed into an extravagance.
We will come down presently to Molehill, for I suppose that is where it is. No, I can't stop to hear the story now, and besides I want Colonel Quaritch to tell it to me." "All right, Squire," said George, touching his red nightcap, "I'll be off," and he started. "George," halloaed his master after him, but George did not stop.
You must not open a book; if you do I am lost, for I shall have to look at every illuminated capital, from the first leaf to the colophon." Mr. Quaritch did not open a single book, but let me look round his establishment, and answered my questions very courteously. It so happened that while I was there a gentleman came in whom I had previously met, my namesake, Mr.
Quest and Mr. Cossey, and I must go and say how do you do." Harold Quaritch looked round, feeling unreasonably irritated at this interruption to his little advances, and for the first time saw Edward Cossey. He was coming along in the wake of Mrs.
The dealer in this place so loved his books that he almost preferred a customer who knew them above one who bought them, and honestly felt a pang when a choice book was sold. Never can I forget what the great Quaritch said to me when he was showing me the inner shrine of his treasure-house, and I felt it honest to explain that I could only look, lest he should think me an impostor.
"A beautiful suit of the early Stuart period, Mr. de la Molle," he said; "I never saw a better." "Yes, yes, that belonged to old Sir James, the one whom the Roundheads shot." "What! the Sir James who hid the treasure?" "Yes. I was telling that story to our new neighbour, Colonel Quaritch, last night a very nice fellow, by the way; you should go and call upon him."
The drawing-room looked on to the garden, and at the end of the garden was a door which opened into another street. Through this door had come Colonel Quaritch accompanied by Mr. Quest, the former with his gun under his arm. They walked up the garden and were almost at the French window when Edward Cossey saw them. "Control yourself," he said in a low voice, "here is your husband." Mr.
It is no wonder, then, that a woman like Ida de la Molle was /facile princeps/ among such company, or that Harold Quaritch, who was somewhat poetically inclined for a man of his age, at any rate where the lady in question was concerned, should in his heart have compared her to a queen.
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