Without perceiving it, he had now taken his pipe, lighted it, and was smoking away. ‘By the way, how those same Imperialists have played the game!--the two or three middle-aged men that Kinglake says, “put their heads together to plan for a livelihood.” I wish they had taken me into the partnership. It’s the sort of thing I’d have liked well; ay, and I could have done it, too! I wonder,’ said he aloud--‘I wonder if I were an emperor should I marry Letty Clancy? I suspect not. Letty would have been flippant as an empress, and her cousins would have made atrocious princes of the imperial family, though, for the matter of that--Hullo! Here have I been smoking without knowing it! Can any one tell us whether the sins we do inadvertently count as sins, or do we square them off by our inadvertent good actions? I trust I shall not be called on to catalogue mine. There, my courage is out!’ As he said this he emptied the ashes of his pipe, and gazed sorrowfully at the empty bowl. ‘Now, if I were the son of some good house, with a high-sounding name, and well-to-do relations, I’d soon bring them to terms if they dared to cast me off. I’d turn milk or muffin man, and serve the street they lived in. I’d sweep the crossing in front of their windows, or I’d commit a small theft, and call on my high connections for a character--but being who and what I am, I might do any or all o these, and shock nobody. ‘Next to take stock of my effects. Let me see what my assets will bring when reduced to cash, for this time it shall be a sale.’ And he turned to a table where paper and pens were lying, and proceeded to write. ‘Personal, sworn under, let us say, ten thousand pounds. Literature first. To divers worn copies of _Virgil_, _Tacitus_, _Juvenal_, and _Ovid_, Cæsar’s _Commentaries_, and _Catullus_; to ditto ditto of _Homer_, _Lucian_, _Aristophanes_, _Balzac_, _Anacreon_, Bacon’s _Essays_, and Moore’s _Melodies_; to Dwight’s _Theology_--uncut copy, Heine’s _Poems_--very much thumbed, _Saint Simon_--very ragged, two volumes of _Les Causes Célèbres_, Tone’s _Memoirs_, and Beranger’s _Songs_; to Cuvier’s _Comparative Anatomy_, Shroeder on _Shakespeare_, Newman’s _Apology_, Archbold’s _Criminal Law_ and _Songs of the Nation_; to Colenso, East’s _Cases for the Crown_, Carte’s _Ormonde_, and _Pickwick_. But why go on? Let us call it the small but well-selected library of a distressed gentleman, whose cultivated mind is reflected in the marginal notes with which these volumes abound. Will any gentleman say, “£10 for the lot”? Why the very criticisms are worth--I mean to a man of literary tastes--five times the amount. No offer at £10? Who is it that says “five”? I trust my ears have deceived me. You repeat the insulting proposal? Well, sir, on your own head be it! Mr. Atlee’s library--or the Atlee collection is better--was yesterday disposed of to a well-known collector of rare books, and, if we are rightly informed, for a mere fraction of its value.