''Then you have raised it to life. A fantastic achievement.''
''Fantastic, indeed—more so, when one knows the degrees of obscurity in which my subject is shrouded. Consider this: that the authors of the texts I collect must cloak their identity in deception and anonymity. That the texts themselves are stamped with every kind of false and misleading detail as to place and date of publication and impress. Hmm? That they are burdened with obscure titles. That they must pass darkly, via secret channels, or on the wings of rumour and supposition. Consider those checks to the bibliographer''s progress. Then speak to me, sir, of fantastic labour!'' He trembles in a mirthless laughter.
''I cannot conceive it,'' says Mr Rivers. ''And the Index is organised . . .?''
''By title, by name, by date when we have it; and, mark this, sir: by species of pleasure. We have them tabled, most precisely''
''The books?''
''The pleasures! Where are we presently, Maud?''
The gentlemen turn to me. I sip my wine. ''At the Lust,'' I say, ''of Men for Beasts.''
My uncle nods. ''So, so,'' he says. ''Do you see, Rivers, the assistance our bibliography will provide, to the student of the field? It will be a veritable Bible.''
''The flesh made word,'' says Mr Hawtrey, smiling, enjoying the phrase. He catches my eye, and winks. Mr Rivers, however, is still looking earnestly at my uncle.