Your copy for "The Watchfire," please, sir.
MALISE. [Motioning him out] Yes. Wait!
The Boy withdraws. MALISE goes up to the pile of books, turns
them over, and takes up some volumes.
MALISE. This is a very fine unexpurgated translation of Boccaccio's
"Decameron," Mr. Haywood illustrated. I should say you would get
more than the amount of your bill for them.
HAYWOOD. [Shaking his head] Them books worth three pound seven!
MALISE. It's scarce, and highly improper. Will you take them in
discharge?
HAYWOOD. [Torn between emotions] Well, I 'ardly know what to say--
No, Sir, I don't think I'd like to 'ave to do with that.
MALISE. You could read them first, you know?
HAYWOOD. [Dubiously] I've got my wife at 'ome.
MALISE. You could both read them.
HAYWOOD. [Brought to his bearings] No, Sir, I couldn't.
MALISE. Very well; I'll sell them myself, and you shall have the
result.
HAYWOOD. Well, thank you, sir. I'm sure I didn't want to trouble
you.
MALISE. Not at all, Mr. Haywood. It's for me to apologize.
HAYWOOD. So long as I give satisfaction.
MALISE. [Holding the door for him] Certainly. Good evening.
HAYWOOD. Good evenin', sir; no offence, I hope.
MALISE. On the contrary.
Doubtfully HAYWOOD goes. And MALISE stands scratching his head;
then slipping the bill into one of the volumes to remind him, he
replaces them at the top of the pile. The Boy again advances
into the doorway.
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