hunting along a shelf. "Yes, here it is." He read aloud:


"The works of a man, bury them under what guano-mountains and
obscene owl-droppings you will, do not perish, cannot perish.
What of Heroism, what of Eternal Light was in a Man and his Life,
is with very great exactness added to the Eternities, remains forever
a new divine portion of the Sum of Things.


"Now, my friends, the bookseller is one of the keys in that universal
adding machine, because he aids in the cross-fertilization of men
and books. His delight in his calling doesn't need to be stimulated
even by the bright shanks of a Coles Phillips picture.

"Roger, my boy," said Gladfist, "your innocent enthusiasm makes me think
of Tom Daly's favourite story about the Irish priest who was rebuking
his flock for their love of whisky. 'Whisky,' he said, 'is the bane
of this congregation. Whisky, that steals away a man's brains.
Whisky, that makes you shoot at landlords--and not hit them!'
Even so, my dear Roger, your enthusiasm makes you shoot at truth
and never come anywhere near it."

"Jerry," said Roger, "you are a upas tree. Your shadow is poisonous!"

"Well, gentlemen," said Mr. Chapman, "I know Mrs. Mifflin wants to be
relieved of her post. I vote we adjourn early. Your conversation
is always delightful, though I am sometimes a bit uncertain
as to the conclusions. My daughter is going to be a bookseller,
and I shall look forward to hearing her views on the business."