Even the Irish books, in spite of the Gaelic revival, found no purchasers.

When all was over, Hyacinth wheeled them away in barrowfuls, wondering greatly what he was to do with them.
Indeed, the disposal of his library was not the chief of his perplexities.

He wondered also what he was to do with himself.

When the auctioneer sent in his cheque, and the London Committee of the Mission had paid over certain arrears of salary, Hyacinth found himself the possessor of nearly two hundred pounds.

It seemed to him quite a large fortune, amply sufficient to start life with, if only some suitable way of employing brains, energy, and money would suggest itself.