'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to you about it if I knew what the book was.'
'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'
'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'
It seemed a deadlock.
Going to the bookcase, Edith said:
'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'
'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'
Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was suitable for the children.
To all of these questions he returned a negative.
'Suitable for the children?' he repeated. 'What a fantastic idea! Do you think I should take all this trouble to come and request your assistance and spend hours of valuable time looking for a book that's suitable for the children?'