“I shall merely leave the place for others,” I replied wearily, for weariness and dejection were a part of living here, except to those whose kingdom it was.
“Genius,” he said as he sat down, “what do you think of my collection of books?”
“It is very fine,” I answered, looking round. “But nothing out of the way for so great an individuality.”
“What more does it need?” he asked as he looked round.
“Nothing. And that is where it becomes uninteresting. You have everything.”
“Yes,” he replied. “And I’m growing sick of it. One of these days I shall burn more than half the lying rubbish. I don’t know why I ever collected it.”
“That would be a pity,” I rejoined. “To destroy so much beauty of thought would be very needless destruction.”
“Not at all,” he observed sharply. “I am going—”
Here he was interrupted by the opening of the door, and there entered several others very similar to him.
“Plucritus, why were you not there?” queried the first comer. “It was an almost more amusing scene than that witnessed at Dino’s last week. But you were not here last week. What an age it is since we have seen you.”