'What's all this?' said Mr Briggs.
It seemed almost incredible to Lancelot that his poem should present any aspect of obscurity to even the meanest intellect; but he explained.
'The thing,' he said, 'is symbolic. It essays to depict the state of mind of the man who has not yet tried Briggs's Breakfast Pickles. I shall require it to be printed in hand-set type on deep cream-coloured paper.'
'Yes?' said Mr Briggs, touching the bell.
'With bevelled edges. It must be published, of course, bound in limp leather, preferably of a violet shade, in a limited edition, confined to one hundred and five copies. Each of these copies I will sign—'
'You rang, sir?' said the butler, appearing in the doorway.
Mr Briggs nodded curtly.
'Bewstridge,' said he, 'throw Mr Lancelot out.'
'Very good, sir.'
'And see,' added Mr Briggs, superintending the subsequent proceedings from his library window, 'that he never darkens my doors again. When you have finished, Bewstridge, ring up my lawyers on the telephone. I wish to alter my will.'