He was perfectly cognizant of the value of investing simple circumstances with delightful mystery, at times; and he knew, to the Lady Ethelrida, this trysting with him had become a momentous thing.
"You see, I found the way," he said softly, and he allowed something of the joy and tenderness he felt to come into his voice.
And Lady Ethelrida answered a little nervously that she was glad, and then continued quickly that she must show him her bookcases, because there was so little time.
"Only one short half-hour--if you will let me stay so long," he pleaded.
In his hand he carried the original volume he had spoken about, a very old edition of Shakespeare's Sonnets, from which he had carefully had one or two removed.

It was exquisitely bound and tooled, and had her monogram worked into a beautiful little medallion--a work of art.

He handed it to her first.
"This I ventured to have ordered for you long ago," he said.

"Six weeks it is nearly, and I so feared until yesterday that you would not let me give it to you.

It does not mean for your birthday: it is our original bond of acquaintance." "It is too beautiful," said Lady Ethelrida, looking down.
"And over there by your writing table"-- he had carefully ascertained this locality from Heinrich--"you will find the books that are my birthday gift, if you will give me the delight of accepting them." She went forward with a little cry of surprise and pleasure, while, instantaneously, the wonder of how he should know where they would be presented itself to her mind.
They were about six volumes.