I confess that
I made little progress. In the evening I strolled across the
Park, and found myself about six o'clock at the Oxford Street
end of Park Lane. A group of loafers upon the pavements, all
staring up at a particular window, directed me to the house
which I had come to see. A tall, thin man with coloured
glasses, whom I strongly suspected of being a plain-clothes
detective, was pointing out some theory of his own, while the
others crowded round to listen to what he said. I got as near
him as I could, but his observations seemed to me to be absurd,
so I withdrew again in some disgust. As I did so I struck
against an elderly deformed man, who had been behind me, and I
knocked down several books which he was carrying. I remember
that as I picked them up I observed the title of one of them,
"The Origin of Tree Worship," and it struck me that the fellow
must be some poor bibliophile who, either as a trade or as a
hobby, was a collector of obscure volumes. I endeavoured to
apologize for the accident, but it was evident that these books
which I had so unfortunately maltreated were very precious
objects in the eyes of their owner.
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