"Almost," he said. "It's almost ready. It'll be out soon—very soon now—it'll be out soon. I've got it here—right here—right here on the desk."
He touched fondly the very manuscript we had surprised him writing.
"That's it," he said. "The Obelisk, volume one, number one."
"And the great stone of Iris-Iris?" queried Letitia.
He half rose from his chair, and exclaimed, excitedly, pointing to a drawer in the paper-buried desk:
"Right there! The cut is there!—cut of the inscription, you know. It's to be the frontispiece. Here: page one—my story—story of the translation and how I made it, and what it means to the civilized world. Don't fail to read it!"
He wiped his glasses.
"When," I asked, "will it be out?"
"Soon," he replied. "Soon, I hope. Not later than the fall."
"That's some time off yet," I remarked.