The poor beast never made a faster
journey in its life. "Ha!" said O - - . "That's sport."
At other times he related, always in that hoarse whisper, anecdotes of
his life, a life of reckless adventure, of fortunes made and fortunes
lost; or spoke of his old passion for art and books. He seemed to have
known, at one time or another, every artist and connoisseur on either
side of the Atlantic; he told me it had cost about L10,000 to acquire
his unique knowledge and taste in the matter of mezzotints, and that he
was concerned about the fate of his "Daphnis and Chloe" collection which
contained, he said, a copy of every edition in every language - all
except the unique Elizabethan version in the Huth library (now British
Museum). I happened to have one of the few modern reprints of that
stupid and ungainly book: would he accept it? Not likely! He was after
originals.
One day he suddenly announced:
"I am leaving you my small library of erotic literature, five or six
hundred pieces, worth a couple of thousand, I should say. Some wonderful
old French stuff, and as many Rops as you like, and Persian and Chinese
things - I can see you gloating over them! Don't thank me. And now I'm
off to England."
"To England?"
The doctor peremptorily forbade the journey; if he must go, let him wait
another couple of weeks and gain some more strength.
