He had in his hand what I saw was a bookseller's catalogue, just delivered by the postman. Mechanically he tore off the wrapper and even glanced over the first page. Then, as if conscience stabbed him, he flung the thing violently away. 'The chance has gone!' he exclaimed, taking a hurried step or two along the little strip of floor left free by the mountain of books. 'Of course she said she would rather stay in London! Of course she said what she knew would please me! When--when did she ever say anything else! And I was cruel enough--base enough--to let her make the sacrifice!' He waved his arms frantically. 'Didn't I know what it cost her? Couldn't I see in her face how her heart leapt at the hope of going to live in the country! I knew what she was suffering; I _knew_ it, I tell you! And, like a selfish coward, I let her suffer--I let her drop down and die--die!' 'Any hour,' I said, 'may bring you the reply from Mrs. Keeting. Of course it will be favourable, and the good news--' 'Too late, I have killed her! That woman won't write. She's one of the vulgar rich, and we offended her pride; and such as she never forgive.' He sat down for a moment, but started up again in an agony of mental suffering. 'She is dying--and there, there, that's what has killed her!' He gesticulated wildly towards the books. 'I have sold her life for those. Oh!--oh!' With this cry he seized half a dozen volumes, and, before I could understand what he was about, he had flung up the window-sash, and cast the books into the street. Another batch followed; I heard the thud upon the pavement. Then I caught him by the arm, held him fast, begged him to control himself. 'They shall all go!' he cried. 'I loathe the sight of them. They have killed my dear wife!' He said it sobbing, and at the last words tears streamed from his eyes. I had no difficulty now in restraining him. He met my look with a gaze of infinite pathos, and talked on while he wept. 'If you knew what she has been to me! When she married me I was a ruined man twenty years older. I have given her nothing but toil and care. You shall know everything--for years and years I have lived on the earnings of her labour. Worse than that, I have starved and stinted her to buy books. Oh, the shame of it! The wickedness of it! It was my vice--the vice that enslaved me just as if it had been drinking or gambling. I couldn't resist the temptation--though every day I cried shame upon myself and swore to overcome it. She never blamed me; never a word--nay, not a look--of a reproach. I lived in idleness. I never tried to save her that daily toil at the shop. Do you know that she worked in a shop?--She, with her knowledge and her refinement leading such a life as that! Think that I have passed the shop a thousand times, coming home with a book in my hands! I had the heart to pass, and to think of her there! Oh! Oh!'