He could not do that, but agreed to come to dinner in the evening. His shrewd old eyes took in much more than the details of my copies and editions during his two or three hours at my house. With discreet but observant gaze he followed the children about and measured, more accurately no doubt than I could have done, the worth and solidity of my household. He had seen something of my easy bachelor life in the old days and, doubtless, was now drawing his contrasts and conclusions. "What do you think you can offer?" I queried with some anxiety, as he stood carefully fingering the books which, like Milton’s one talent, it were death to hide—for they were bread. Andrews sat down and stared for an interval thoughtfully before him. "I’ll tell you what I’d like to offer you before we talk about the books—" he spoke with an even, a studied deliberation. "I’d like to offer you—a partnership!" It was my turn to stare in stupefaction. "It would be a great thing for me if you came in with me, Mr. Byrd," he now spoke more quickly. "You see, I’m an old man, getting on, sir—getting on. I want some new blood in the place—new blood—a fresh point of view and young enthusiasm. That young lady of yours coming in the way she did woke me up to that. And whom could I leave it to when it comes to the end?" he speculated wistfully. "I have no relations." I opened my mouth to speak, but Andrews took the privilege of age to disregard me. "I want a man with the tender touch for books, Mr. Byrd—the tender touch. It’s a beautiful business," he smacked his lips—"beautiful! The hunting for them—it’s—it’s a knightly quest. And to find homes for them—it’s like placing bonny children. The bookmen of America are generous. We ought to go to England—buy libraries—increase our treasure." "But, my dear Andrews," I spluttered, in agitated protest. "Do you know what you are offering me? A career, a livelihood, life itself—the future of those children of mine—what can I contribute, except these books—and compared to your business and good will!—" "If you were rich," he interrupted, "do you suppose I’d have the effrontery to make you the offer? You see, I’ve known you a long time, Mr. Byrd—and it’s been a great pleasure to me. If I had a son—but," and his voice struck a harsher note with things repressed—"it’s no use going into that. That is the business for a man like you. "We all need money," he pursued with new energy. "It’s a thing to despise if you can—a thing for sentimentalists to drivel about. But so long as our present social and economic system continues, only a fool would decry money. It’s no good to you when your heart is breaking, but neither is food nor water, nor shelter nor leisure. But when you want food and shelter and leisure, that is as long as you’re above ground, you want money. I have prospered—done well. Will you come with me, Randolph Byrd?"