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“
Where
are
you
going
?
To
the
club
?
”
Flamel
asked
;
adding
,
as
the
younger
man
assented
,
“
Why
not
come
to
my
studio
instead
?
You
’
ll
see
one
bore
instead
of
twenty
.
”
The
apartment
which
Flamel
described
as
his
studio
showed
,
as
its
one
claim
to
the
designation
,
a
perennially
empty
easel
;
the
rest
of
its
space
being
filled
with
the
evidences
of
a
comprehensive
dilettanteism
.
Against
this
background
,
which
seemed
the
visible
expression
of
its
owner
’
s
intellectual
tolerance
,
rows
of
fine
books
detached
themselves
with
a
prominence
,
showing
them
to
be
Flamel
’
s
chief
care
.
Glennard
glanced
with
the
eye
of
untrained
curiosity
at
the
lines
of
warm
-
toned
morocco
,
while
his
host
busied
himself
with
the
uncorking
of
Apollinaris
.
“
You
’
ve
got
a
splendid
lot
of
books
,
”
he
said
.
“
They
’
re
fairly
decent
,
”
the
other
assented
,
in
the
curt
tone
of
the
collector
who
will
not
talk
of
his
passion
for
fear
of
talking
of
nothing
else
;
then
,
as
Glennard
,
his
hands
in
his
pockets
,
began
to
stroll
perfunctorily
down
the
long
line
of
bookcases
—
“
Some
men
,
”
Flamel
irresistibly
added
,
“
think
of
books
merely
as
tools
,
others
as
tooling
.
I
’
m
between
the
two
;
there
are
days
when
I
use
them
as
scenery
,
other
days
when
I
want
them
as
society
;
so
that
,
as
you
see
,
my
library
represents
a
makeshift
compromise
between
looks
and
brains
,
and
the
collectors
look
down
on
me
almost
as
much
as
the
students
.
”
Glennard
,
without
answering
,
was
mechanically
taking
one
book
after
another
from
the
shelves
.
His
hands
slipped
curiously
over
the
smooth
covers
and
the
noiseless
subsidence
of
opening
pages
.
Suddenly
he
came
on
a
thin
volume
of
faded
manuscript
.
“
What
’
s
this
?
”
he
asked
,
with
a
listless
sense
of
wonder
.
“
Ah
,
you
’
re
at
my
manuscript
shelf
.
I
’
ve
been
going
in
for
that
sort
of
thing
lately
.
”
Flamel
came
up
and
looked
over
his
shoulders
.
“
That
’
s
a
bit
of
Stendhal
—
one
of
the
Italian
stories
—
and
here
are
some
letters
of
Balzac
to
Madame
Commanville
.
”
