s erms; but it udent of ts t I ely to find a better application for my talents, sir, the conjuring of bad English from worse French.
ell, ures.
Very much indeed.
ell, anot. than for my books, however. Youve heard, perhaps—he pauses—of my Index?
Mr Rivers inclines sounds a marvellous thing.
Pretty marvellous—e, are ? Do we blush?
I know my own curns, searcful gaze.
ly.
e are close, ansation h finishers.
And th?
A thousand pages.
Mr rey raises emper it, wle. her slice of goose.
to you last.
For t volume, of course. ter. t, Rivers?
Astonishing, sir.
s like? An universal bibliograp Englishmen.
t to life. A fantastic ac.
Fantastic, indeed—more so, exts I collect must cloak tity in deception and anonymity. t texts tamped ail as to place and date of publication and impress. titles. t t pass darkly, via secret cion. Consider to to me, sir, of fantastic labour! rembles in a mirter.
I cannot conceive it, says Mr Rivers. And the Index is organised . . .?
By title, by name, by date abled, most precisely
the books?
tly, Maud?
tlemen turn to me. I sip my t, I say, of Men for Beasts.
My uncle nods. So, so, ance our bibliograpo tudent of t able Bible.
trey, smiling, enjoying tcill looking earnestly at my uncle.
A great ambition, he says now.
A great labour, says Mr huss.
Indeed, says Mr rey, turning again to me. I am afraid, Miss Lilly, your uncle continues to work you very mercilessly.
I so task, I say, as servants are.
Servants and young ladies, says Mr sorts of creatures. said so, many times? Girls eyes s be he gripping of pens.
So my uncle believes, I say, s is o save, of course, not my fingers.
And inius, so dedicated a collector he sake of his library.
te, drive o violence for literatures sake, and we shall never forgive you.
tlemen laugh.