Before the old bookshops and printshops, the crowded panes of the curiosity-mongers and the desirable exhibitions of mahogany "done up," he used, by an innocent process, to commit luxurious follies.
He refurnished Mrs.Bundy with a ******* that cost her nothing, and lost himself in pictures of a transfigured second floor.
On this particular occasion the King's Road proved almost unprecedentedly expensive, and indeed this occasion differed from most others in containing the germ of real danger.For once in a way he had a bad conscience--he felt himself tempted to pick his own pocket.He never saw a commodious writing-table, with elbow-room and drawers and a fair expanse of leather stamped neatly at the edge with gilt, without being freshly reminded of Mrs.Bundy's dilapidations.
There were several such tables in the King's Road--they seemed indeed particularly numerous today.Peter Baron glanced at them all through the fronts of the shops, but there was one that detained him in supreme contemplation.There was a fine assurance about it which seemed a guarantee of masterpieces; but when at last he went in and, just to help himself on his way, asked the impossible price, the sum mentioned by the voluble vendor mocked at him even more than he had feared.It was far too expensive, as he hinted, and he was on the point of completing his comedy by a pensive retreat when the shopman bespoke his attention for another article of the same general character, which he described as remarkably cheap for what it was.
It was an old piece, from a sale in the country, and it had been in stock some time; but it had got pushed out of sight in one of the upper rooms--they contained such a wilderness of treasures--and happened to have but just come to light.Peter suffered himself to be conducted into an interminable dusky rear, where he presently found himself bending over one of those square substantial desks of old mahogany, raised, with the aid of front legs, on a sort of retreating pedestal which is fitted with small drawers, contracted conveniences known immemorially to the knowing as davenports.This specimen had visibly seen service, but it had an old-time solidity and to Peter Baron it unexpectedly appealed.
He would have said in advance that such an article was exactly what he didn't want, but as the shopman pushed up a chair for him and he sat down with his elbows on the gentle slope of the large, firm lid, he felt that such a basis for literature would be half the battle.
He raised the lid and looked lovingly into the deep interior; he sat ominously silent while his companion dropped the striking words:
"Now that's an article I personally covet!" Then when the man mentioned the ridiculous price (they were literally giving it away), he reflected on the economy of having a literary altar on which one could really kindle a fire.A davenport was a compromise, but what was all life but a compromise? He could beat down the dealer, and at Mrs.Bundy's he had to write on an insincere card-table.After he had sat for a minute with his nose in the friendly desk he had a queer impression that it might tell him a secret or two--one of the secrets of form, one of the sacrificial mysteries--though no doubt its career had been literary only in the sense of its helping some old lady to write invitations to dull dinners.There was a strange, faint odour in the receptacle, as if fragrant, hallowed things had once been put away there.When he took his head out of it he said to the shopman: "I don't mind meeting you halfway." He had been told by knowing people that that was the right thing.He felt rather vulgar, but the davenport arrived that evening at Jersey Villas.
