“You mean the Philosopher? Oh, yes! He is here—but I believe he’s going to Oxford next week for—for a while.”
“Only for a while? Why don’t he stay there?”
“Well, you see he’s a great help to father—”
“Yes—yes! Jack told me. But the book will be finished some time, won’t it?—say a month before the Judgment Day?”
She laughed.
“Oh, I hope so! But of course it’s heavy work, and takes a lot of time and patience—”
“Wasted labour!” growled Jack’s father. “Like all the great useless books packed up in big libraries; nobody reads them except a few old curiosity hunters, and nobody wants to read them either—”
“As reference books,” suggested the Sentimentalist, “they are perhaps necessary. You see”—and she sighed—“people cannot live on romance and poetry.”
“No, they can’t, but lots of them try to!” and the old gentleman treated her to a very wide smile and very narrow wink. “You, for instance—you live on romance and poetry!”
Her blue eyes filled with amazement.