e
a moment in the air. As he worked his way further and further into the
heart of the poet, his chair became more and more deeply encircled
by books, which lay open on the floor, and could only be crossed by a
careful process of stepping, so delicate that his visitors generally
stopped and addressed him from the outskirts.

On the morning after the dance, however, Rachel came into her uncle's
room and hailed him twice, "Uncle Ridley," before he paid her any
attention.

At length he looked over his spectacles.

"Well?" he asked.

"I want a book," she replied. "Gibbon's _History_ _of_ _the_ _Roman_
_Empire_. May I have it?"

She watched the lines on her uncle's face gradually rearrange themselves
at her question. It had been smooth as a mask before she spoke.

"Please say that again," said her uncle, either because he had not heard
or because he had not understood.

She repeated the same words and reddened slightly as she did so.

"Gibbon! What on earth d'you want him for?" he enquired.

"Somebody advised me to read it," Rachel stammered.

"But I don't travel about with a miscellaneous collection of
eighteenth-century historians!" her uncle exclaimed. "Gibbon! Ten big
volumes at least."

Rachel said that she was sorry to interrupt, and was turning to go.

"Stop!" cried her uncle. He put down his pipe, placed his book on one
side, and rose and led her slowly round the room, holding her by the
arm. "Plato," he said, laying one finger on the first of a row of small
dark books, "and Jorrocks next door, which is wrong. Sophocles, Swift.
You don't care for German commentators, I presume. French, then. You
read French? You should read Balzac. Then we come to Wordsworth and
Coleridge, Pope, Johnson, Addison, Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats. One thing
leads to another. Why is Marlowe here? Mrs. Chailey, I presume. But
what's the use of reading if you don't read Greek? After all, if you
read Greek, you need never read anything else, pure waste of time--pure
waste of time," thus speaking half to himself, with quick movements
of his hands; they had come round again to the circle of books on the
floor, and their progress was stopped.

"Well," he demanded, "which shall it be?"

"Balzac," said Rachel, "or have you the _Speech_ _on_ _the_ _American_
_Revolution_, Uncle Ridley?"

"_The_ _Speech_ _on_ _the_ _American_ _Revolution_?" he asked. He looked
at her very keenly again. "Another young man at the dance?"

"No. That w