“I thought so!” he said; “going!--going!--Look at the joints of this Gibbon, sir. That's always the way with russia--now-a-days, at least!--Smell that, grandfather! Isn't it sweet? But there's no stay in it! Smell that joint! The leather's stone-dead!--It's the rarest thing to see a volume bound in russia, of which the joints are not broken, or at least cracking. These joints, you see, are gone to powder! All russia does--sooner or later, whatever be the cause.--Just put that joint to your nose, sir! That's part of what you smell so strong in the room.” He held out the book to him, but Lestrange drew back: it was not fit his nose should stoop to the request of a tradesman! Richard replaced the book, and took down one after another of the same set. “Every one, you see, sir,” he said, “going the same way! Dust to dust!” “If they're _all_ going that way,” remarked the young man, “it would cost every stick on the estate to rebind them!” “I should be sorry to rebind any of them. An old binding is like an old picture! Just look at this French binding! It's very dingy, and a good deal broken, but you never see anything like that nowadays--as mellow as modest, and as rich as roses! Here's one says the same thing as your grand hall out there, only in a piping voice.” Lestrange was not exactly stuck-up; he had feared the fellow was bumptious, and felt there was no knowing what he might say next, but by this time had ceased to imagine his dignity in danger. The young blacksmith's admiration of the books and of the hall pleased him, and he became more cordial. “Do you say _all_ russia-leather behaves in the same fashion?” he asked. “Yes, now. I fancy it did not some years ago. There may be some change in the preparation of the leather. I don't know. It is a great pity! Russia is lovely to the eye--and to the nostrils.--May I take a look at some of the _old_ books, sir?” “What do you call an _old_ book?” “One not later, say, than the time of James the First.--Have you a first folio, sir?” Lestrange was thinking of his coming baronetcy. “First folio?” he answered absently. “I dare say you will find a good many first folios on the shelves!” “I mean the folio Shakespeare of 1623. There are, of course, many folios much scarcer! I saw one the other day that the booksellers themselves gave eight hundred guineas for!” “What was it?” asked Lestrange carelessly. “It was a wonderful copy--unique as to condition--of Gower's _Confessio Amantis;_--not a _very_ interesting book, though I do not doubt Shakespeare was fond of it. You see Shakespeare could hear the stones preaching!” “By Jove, a man may hear the sticks do that any Sunday!” “True enough, sir, ha-ha!” “Have you read Gower, then?” “A good deal of him.” “Was it that same precious copy you read him in?” “It was; but I hadn't time for more than about the half. I must finish on another edition, I fear.” “How did you get hold of a book of such value?”