of course."

"Very painful," Ridley agreed.

"There's an unmarried daughter who keeps house for him, I believe, but
it's never the same, not at his age."

Both gentlemen nodded sagely as they carved their apples.

"There was a book, wasn't there?" Ridley enquired.

"There _was_ a book, but there never _will_ be a book," said Mr. Pepper
with such fierceness that both ladies looked up at him.

"There never will be a book, because some one else has written it for
him," said Mr. Pepper with considerable acidity. "That's what comes of
putting things off, and collecting fossils, and sticking Norman arches
on one's pigsties."

"I confess I sympathise," said Ridley with a melancholy sigh. "I have a
weakness for people who can't begin."

". . . The accumulations of a lifetime wasted," continued Mr. pepper.
"He had accumulations enough to fill a barn."

"It's a vice that some of us escape," said Ridley. "Our friend Miles has
another work out to-day."

Mr. Pepper gave an acid little laugh. "According to my calculations," he
said, "he has produced two volumes and a half annually, which,