''Perhaps,'' says Mr Hawtrey, ''as depending on the emotion that has provoked them?''
''Exactly. You have hit it, Hawtrey, there. Violet tears, for a melancholy book; pink, for a gay. It might be sewn up, too, with hair from a girl''s head ..." He glances at me and his look changes. He puts his napkin to his mouth.
''Now,'' says Mr Hawtrey, ''I really wonder that that has never been attempted. Mr Lilly? One hears barbarous stories of course, of hides and bindings
They discuss this for a time. Mr Rivers listens but says nothing. Of course, his attention is all with me. Perhaps he will speak, I think, under cover of their talk. I hope he will. I hope he won''t. I sip my wine and am suddenly weary. I have sat at suppers like this, hearing my uncle''s friends chase tedious points in small, tight circles, too many times. Unexpectedly, I think of Agnes. I think of Agnes''s mouth teasing a bead of blood from her pricked palm. My uncle clears his throat, and I blink.
''So, Rivers,'' he says, ''Hawtrey tells me he has you translating, French matter into English. Poor stuff, I suppose, if his press is involved in it.''
''Poor stuff indeed,'' answers Mr Rivers; ''or I should not attempt it. It is hardly my line. One learns, in Paris, the necess