ped by history!'' answers my uncle. ''It is corrupted by it! Its history hangs about it like so much smoke!—you may see it, in
the fitting of a slipper, a gown, the dressing of a head. Give photographs to your grandson: he will study them and think them quaint. He will laugh at the wax tips of your moustaches! But words Hawtrey, words—hmm? They seduce us in darkness, and the mind clothes and fleshes them to fashions of its own. Don''t you think so Rivers?''
''I do, sir.''
''You know I won''t allow daguerreotypes and nonsense like that into my collection?''
''I think you are right not to, sir.''
Mr Hawtrey shakes his head. He says, to my uncle: ''You still believe photography a fashion, that will pass? You must come to Holywell Street, and spend an hour in my shop. We have albums made up, now, for men to choose from. It is all our buyers come for.''
''Your buyers are brutes. What business have I with them? Rivers, you have seen them. What is your opinion as to the quality of Hawtrey''s trade . . .?''
The debate will go on, he cannot escape. He answers, then catches my eye as if in apology, rises, goes to my uncle''s side. They talk until the striking of ten o''clock—which is when I leave them.
That is the Thursday night. Mr Rivers is due to remain at Briar until Sunday. Next day I am kept from the library while the men look over the books; at supper he watches me, and afterwards hears me read, but then is obliged to sit again with my uncle and cannot come to my side. Saturday I walk in the park with Agnes, and do not see him; Saturday night, however, my uncle has me read from an antique book, one of his finest—and then, when I have finished, Mr Rivers comes and sits beside me, to study its singular covers.