Would he ever really want those monumental tomes--the six folios of Muratori, for instance, which he liked to possess, but had never used?
Thereby hung the great, the unanswerable question: How was he going to spend his life as a married man?
Was it probable that he would become a serious student, or even that he would study as much as heretofore?
No foreseeing; the future must shape itself, even as the past had done.
After all, why dismember his library for the sake of saving a few shillings on carriage?
If he did not use the books himself---- A thought flashed through him which made his brain, unsteady.

If he did not use the books himself, perhaps---- He tried to laugh, but for five minutes was remarkably sober.

No, no; of course he would keep his library intact.
And now there was a duty to perform: he must write to his friends, make known his marriage; the letters to be posted only on the day of fate.
Dear old Basil Morton--how he would stare! Morton should soon come down into Wales, and there would be great quaffing and smoking and talking into the small hours; a jolly anticipation! And Hugh Carnaby! Hugh would throw up his great arms, clench his huge red fists, and roar with mocking laughter.

Good old boy! out there on the other side of the world, perhaps throwing away his money, with the deft help of a swindler.

And the poor lad, Cecil Morphew! who assuredly would never pay back that fifty pounds--to which he was heartily welcome.