"John Boccace—The Dance of Machabree. It's a good title, anyhow. Is that the same Boccaccio that wrote the naughty stories?"
"Yes," said Wimsey, a little shortly. He resented this attitude towards Boccaccio.
"Never read them," said Haviland, with a wink at his wife, "but I've seen 'em in the windows of those surgical shops—so I suppose they're naughty, eh? The vicar's looking shocked."
"Oh, not at all," said Mr. Hancock, with a conscientious assumption of broad-mindedness. "Et ego in Arcadia—that is to say, one doesn't enter the Church without undergoing a classical education, and making the acquaintance of much more worldly authors even than Boccaccio. Those wood-cuts are very fine, to my uninstructed eye."
"Very fine indeed," said Wimsey.
"There's another old book I remember, with jolly pictures," said Haviland. "A chronicle of some sort—what's 'is name—place in Germany—you know—where that hangman came from. They published his diary the other day. I read it, but it wasn't really exciting; not half as gruesome as old Harrison Ainsworth. What's the name of the place?"
"Nüremberg?" suggested Wimsey.
"That's it, of course—the Nüremberg Chronicle. I wonder if that's still in its old place. It was over here by the window, if I remember rightly."
He led the way to the end of one of the bays, which ran up close against a window. Here the damp seemed to have done its worst. A pane of glass was broken, and rain had blown in.
"Now where has it gone to? A big book, it was, with a stamped leather binding. I'd like to see the old Chronicle again. I haven't set eyes on it for donkey's years."