It seemed that the old
song for which he might obtain the Harden library went to the tune of
one thousand pounds; but Pilkington was asking one thousand two
hundred. "It's a large sum," wrote Isaac, "and without more precise
information than you've given me yet, I can't tell whether we should
be justified in paying it."
That confirmed his worst misgivings. He answered it very precisely
indeed. "We shouldn't be morally justified in paying less than four
thousand for such a collection; and we should make a pretty big profit
at that. But if we can't afford the price we must simply withdraw. In
fact I consider that we ought to hold back in any case until we see
whether Miss Harden or any of her people are going to come forward.
It's only fair to give them the chance. You can expect me on the
twentieth."
Beside writing to his father, he had done the only honest and
straightforward thing that was left for him to do. He had written to
Horace Jewdwine. That was indeed what he ought to have done at the
very first. He could see it now, the simple, obvious duty that had
been staring him in the face all the time. He hardly cared to think
what subtle but atrocious egoism of passion had prevented him from
disclosing to Jewdwine the fact of his presence at Court House; even
now he said nothing about the two weeks that he had spent working with
Jewdwine's cousin. The catalogue _raisonne_ was so bound up with the
history of his passion that the thing had become a catalogue
_raisonne_ of its vicissitudes.
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