As he worked his way further and further into the
heart of the poet, his chair became more and more deeply encircled
by books, which lay open on the floor, and could only be crossed by a
careful process of stepping, so delicate that his visitors generally
stopped and addressed him from the outskirts.
On the morning after the dance, however, Rachel came into her uncle's
room and hailed him twice, "Uncle Ridley," before he paid her any
attention.
At length he looked over his spectacles.
"Well?" he asked.
"I want a book," she replied. "Gibbon's _History_ _of_ _the_ _Roman_
_Empire_. May I have it?"
She watched the lines on her uncle's face gradually rearrange themselves
at her question. It had been smooth as a mask before she spoke.
"Please say that again," said her uncle, either because he had not heard
or because he had not understood.
She repeated the same words and reddened slightly as she did so.
"Gibbon! What on earth d'you want him for?" he enquired.
"Somebody advised me to read it," Rachel stammered.
"But I don't travel about with a miscellaneous collection of
eighteenth-century historians!" her uncle exclaimed. "Gibbon! Ten big
volumes at least."
Rachel said that she was sorry to interrupt, and was turning to go.
"Stop!" cried her uncle. He put down his pipe, placed his book on one
side, and rose and led her slowly round the room, holding her by the
arm.
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