Then he drew forward a chair and seated himself.
'Take your top-coat off;' said Reardon.
'Thanks, not this evening.'
'Why the deuce not?'
'Not this evening, thanks.'
The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen
had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this
fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course
understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth.
'Let me have your Sophocles,' were the visitor's next words.
Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics.
'I prefer the Wunder, please.'
'It's gone, my boy.'
'Gone?'
'Wanted a little cash.'
Biffen uttered a sound in which remonstrance and sympathy were
blended.
'I'm sorry to hear that; very sorry. Well, this must do. Now, I
want to know how you scan this chorus in the "Oedipus Rex."'
Reardon took the volume, considered, and began to read aloud with
metric emphasis.
'Choriambics, eh?' cried the other. 'Possible, of course; but
treat them as Ionics a minore with an anacrusis, and see if they
don't go better.'
He involved himself in terms of pedantry, and with such delight
that his eyes gleamed.
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