“Oh, yes,” he said abruptly; “we’d better leave the Latin documents until the end. Most of them are translated in Van Witz’s ‘Mediæval Records.’ I advise you to buy the volume and begin to look it over by yourself.” “I wish you’d get it for me,” Wolcott answered, after a moment in which he decided that the effort of picking up his pencil and paper and writing down the title was too great. “I suppose I could,” said McGaw, slowly. He knew very well that he couldn’t; he didn’t have the necessary dollar. “Yes, bring it round next time you come; there’s plenty of time,” added Sears. To almost any one else, McGaw would have had no difficulty in saying, “I wish you would get it yourself.” But he shrank from what he imagined would be Wolcott’s reception of such a request. For from the time he had come into the room, and found his big pupil sprawling unconcernedly in the middle of it, the tutor had been in a whirl of uneasiness and resentment. Wolcott’s study was a very masculine, almost an austere apartment. But it was simple with the simplicity that costs a great deal of money. Its plain hard woods and dull green leather overpowered McGaw; the solid aggressiveness of Wolcott himself angered him. Both the tutor’s environment and his audience repelled an admission of poverty. In his embarrassment at having to say anything, he said it all, nervously blurting out: “I’m afraid you’ll have to get it yourself. It’s an expensive book; I can’t afford it.” “Why, that’s all right,” said Sears, heartily; “what’s the name of the thing?” He was as ill at ease as McGaw himself, now, and his abrupt note of sincerity was decidedly awkward. The tutor, of course, immediately discovered the intent to patronise, that, as a matter of fact, was not there. His hatred of Wolcott dated itself from that instant.