Chapter 14

CHAPTER XIV.

For their after-luncheon coffee the party generally adjourned to
the library. Its windows looked east, and at this hour of the
day it was the coolest place in the whole house. It was a large
room, fitted, during the eighteenth century, with white painted
shelves of an elegant design. In the middle of one wall a door,
ingeniously upholstered with rows of dummy books, gave access to
a deep cupboard, where, among a pile of letter-files and old
newspapers, the mummy-case of an Egyptian lady, brought back by
the second Sir Ferdinando on his return from the Grand Tour,
mouldered in the darkness. From ten yards away and at a first
glance, one might almost have mistaken this secret door for a
section of shelving filled with genuine books. Coffee-cup in
hand, Mr. Scogan was standing in front of the dummy book-shelf.
Between the sips he discoursed.

"The bottom shelf," he was saying, "is taken up by an
Encyclopaedia in fourteen volumes. Useful, but a little dull, as
is also Caprimulge's 'Dictionary of the Finnish Language'. The
'Biographical Dictionary' looks more promising. 'Biography of
Men who were Born Great', 'Biography of Men who Achieved
Greatness', 'Biography of Men who had Greatness Thrust upon
Them', and 'Biography of Men who were Never Great at All'. Then
there are ten volumes of 'Thom's Works and Wanderings', while the
'Wild Goose Chase, a Novel', by an anonymous author, fills no
less than six. But what's this, what's this?" Mr. Scogan stood
on tiptoe and peered up. "Seven volumes of the 'Tales of
Knockespotch'. The 'Tales of Knockespotch'," he repeated. "Ah,
my dear Henry," he said, turning round, "these are your best
books. I would willingly give all the rest of your library for
them."

The happy possessor of a multitude of first editions, Mr. Wimbush
could afford to smile indulgently.

"Is it possible," Mr. Scogan went on, "that they possess nothing
more than a back and a title?" He opened the cupboard door and
peeped inside, as though he hoped to find the rest of the books
behind it. "Phooh!" he said, and shut the door again. "It
smells of dust and mildew. How symbolical! One comes to the
great masterpieces of the past, expecting some miraculous
illumination, and one finds, on opening them, only darkness and
dust and a faint smell of decay. After all, what is reading but
a vice, like drink or venery or any other form of excessive self-
indulgence? One reads to tickle and amuse one's mind; one reads,
above all, to prevent oneself thinking. Still--the 'Tales of
Knockespotch'..."

He paused, and thoughtfully drummed with his fingers on the backs
of the non-existent, unattainable books.

"But I disagree with you about reading," said