''You like it, Rivers?'' asks my uncle as he does so. ''You know it is very rare?''
''I should say it must be, sir.''
''And you think I mean by that, that there are few other copies?''
''I had supposed that, yes.''
''So you might. But we collectors, we gauge rarity by other means. You think a unique item rare, if no-one wants it? We call that a dead
book. But, say a score of identical copies are sought by a thousand men: each of those single books is rarer than the unique one. You understand me?''
Mr Rivers nods. ''I do. The rareness of the article is relative to the desire of the heart which seeks it.'' He glances at me. ''That is very quaint. And how many men seek this book, that we have just heard?''
My uncle grows coy. ''How many indeed, sir? I''ll answer you like this: put it up for auction, and see! Ha?''
Mr Rivers laughs. ''To be sure, yes . . .''
But beyond the film of his politeness, he looks thoughtful. He bites his lip)—his teeth showing yellow, wolfish, against the dark of his beard, but his mouth a soft and surprising pink. He says nothing while my uncle sips at his drink and Mr Hawtrey fusses with the fire. Then he speaks again.