. Scogan answered. "I had forgotten
there were any serious people in the room."

"I like the idea of the Biographies," said Denis. "There's room for us
all within the scheme; it's comprehensive."

"Yes, the Biographies are good, the Biographies are excellent," Mr
Scogan agreed. "I imagine them written in a very elegant Regency
style--Brighton Pavilion in words--perhaps by the great Dr. Lempriere
himself. You know his classical dictionary? Ah!" Mr. Scogan raised his
hand and let it limply fall again in a gesture which implied that words
failed him. "Read his biography of Helen; read how Jupiter, disguised
as a swan, was 'enabled to avail himself of his situation' vis-a-vis to
Leda. And to think that he may have, must have written these biographies
of the Great! What a work, Henry! And, owing to the idiotic arrangement
of your library, it can't be read."

"I prefer the 'Wild Goose Chase'," said Anne. "A novel in six
volumes--it must be restful."

"Restful," Mr. Scogan repeated. "You've hit on the right word. A 'Wild
Goose Chase' is sound, but a bit old-fashioned--pictures of clerical
life in the fifties, you know; specimens of the landed gentry; peasants
for pathos and comedy; and in the background, always the picturesque
beauties of nature soberly described. All very good and solid, but, like
certain puddings, just a little dull. Personally, I like much better
the notion of 'Thom's Works and Wanderings'. The eccentric Mr. Thom of
Thom's Hill. Old Tom Thom, as his intimates used to call him. He spent
ten years in Thibet organising the clarified butter industry on modern
European lines, and was able to retire at thirty-six with a handsome
fortune. The rest of his life he devoted to travel and ratiocination;
here is the result." Mr. Scogan tapped the dummy books. "And now we come
to the 'Tales of Knockespotch'. What a masterpiece and what a great man!
Knockespotch knew how to write fiction. Ah, Denis, if you could only
read Knockespotch you wouldn't be writing a novel about the wearisome
development of a young man's character, you wouldn't be describing in
endless, fastidious detail, cultured life in Chelsea and Bloomsbury and
Hampstead. You would be trying to write a readable book. But then, alas!
owing to the peculiar arrangement of our host's library, you never will
read Knockespotch."

"Nobody could regret the fact more than I do," said Denis.

"It was Knockespotch," Mr. Scogan continued, "the great Knockespotch,