ary terms; but it was as a student of the fine arts that I was lately there. I hope to find a better application for my talents, sir, than the conjuring of bad English from worse French.''
''Well, well. We shall see.'' My uncle smiles. ''You would like to view my pictures.''
''Very much indeed.''
''Well, another day will do for that. They are handsome enough, I think you''ll find. I care less for them than for my books, however. You''ve heard, perhaps''—he pauses—''of my Index?''
Mr Rivers inclines his head. ''It sounds a marvellous thing.''
''Pretty marvellous—eh, Maud? But, are we modest? Do we blush?''
I know my own cheek is cool; and his is pale as candle-wax. Mr Rivers turns, searches my face with his thoughtful gaze.
''How goes the great work?'' asks Mr Hawtrey lightly.
''We are close,'' answers my uncle. ''We are very close. I am in consultation with finishers.''
''And the length?''
''A thousand pages.''
Mr Hawtrey raises his brow. If my uncle''s temper would permit it, he might whistle. He reaches for another slice of goose.
''Two hundred more then,'' he says, as he does it, ''since I spoke to you last.''
''For the first volume, of course. The second shall be greater. What think you of that, Rivers?''
''Astonishing, sir.''
''Has there ever been its like? An universal bibliography, and on such a theme? They say the science is a dead one amongst Englishmen.''