Carling was well acquainted) greeted
him at the dinner-party with friendly expressions of regret at
the time that had elapsed since they had last seen each other,
and mentioned that he had recently been adding to his collection
of books some rare old volumes of theology, which he thought the
rector might find it useful to look over. Mr. Carling, with the
necessity of finishing his pamphlet uppermost in his mind,
replied, jestingly, that the species of literature which he was
just then most interested in examining happened to be precisely
of the sort which (excepting novels, perhaps) had least affinity
to theological writing. The necessary explanation followed this
avowal as a matter of course, and, to Mr. Carling's great
delight, his friend turned on him gayly with the most surprising
and satisfactory of answers:
"You don't know half the resources of my miles of bookshelves,"
he said, "or you would never have thought of going to London for
what you can get from me. A whole side of one of my rooms
upstairs is devoted to periodical literature. I have reviews,
magazines, and three weekly newspapers, bound, in each case, from
the first number; and, what is just now more to your purpose, I
have the _Times_ for the last fifteen years in huge half-yearly
volumes.
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