"You're less comprehensible than ever I knew you, which is saying a good deal."
"Dear old George! When you're bald I'll kiss you too. And Derry shall write his book."
"And fight Carpentier?"
"Poodledoodle!"
And she flitted out again, unfastening her painting-blouse at the back as she went.
I knew enough of Miss Oliphant by this time to treat her apparent irresponsibilities with respect. I had never heard of either of the books of which she had spoken over the telephone, but I risked a guess at their nature—Bibliographique Universel—Decimal Classification—evidently the subject was indexing, and she had met somebody at dinner the night before who had led her into these arid fields. Naturally she had been bored. But now she was in a rapture of plotting and machination. She intended to assist and encourage Derry in that inordinate plan of his. She came in again, dressed for walking, humming a blithe tune.
"Dear, dear Providence! There was I ready to snap Madge's head off for seizing quite a nice man herself and giving me old Drybones, but now I'm going to send her some flowers. See the idea, George?"
"What are these books?"
"The very latest thing in the way of indexing. It lasted nearly the whole of dinner. Oh, I love myself for being so good! He drooled along, and I said 'How thrilling' and things like that, thinking of something else all the time, and now this gorgeous piece of luck!"
"A Universal Index?"