‘Not this evening, thanks.’
The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth.
‘Let me have your Sophocles,’ were the visitor’s next words.
Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics.
‘I prefer the Wunder, please.’
‘It’s gone, my boy.’
‘Gone?’
‘Wanted a little cash.’
Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were blended.
‘I’m sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I want to know how you scan this chorus in the “Oedipus Rex.”’