Philip’s eyes twinkled as he answered.
“Have you any objection?”
Doctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly.
“What’s that you’re reading?”
“Peregrine Pickle. Smollett.”
“I happen to know that Smollett wrote Peregrine Pickle.”
“I beg your pardon. Medical men aren’t much interested in literature, are they?”
Philip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took it up. It was a volume of an edition which had belonged to the Vicar of Blackstable. It was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving as a frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould. Philip, without meaning to, started forward a little as Doctor South took the volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Very little escaped the old doctor.
“Do I amuse you?” he asked icily.
“I see you’re fond of books. You can always tell by the way people handle them.”