"You humbug, you humbug!"--St. George appeared to enjoy caressing him, as
it were, with that opprobrium. "Don't I know what you think of them?" he
asked, standing there with his hands in his pockets and with a new kind
of smile. It was as if he were going to let his young votary see him all
now.

"Upon my word in that case you know more than I do!" the latter ventured
to respond, revealing a part of the torment of being able neither clearly
to esteem nor distinctly to renounce him.

"My dear fellow," said the more and more interesting Master, "don't
imagine I talk about my books specifically; they're not a decent
subject--il ne manquerait plus que ca! I'm not so bad as you may
apprehend! About myself, yes, a little, if you like; though it wasn't
for that I brought you down here. I want to ask you something--very much
indeed; I value this chance. Therefore sit down. We're practical, but
there _is_ a sofa, you see--for she does humour my poor bones so far.
Like all really great administrators and disciplinarians she knows when
wisely to relax." Paul sank into the corner of a deep leathern couch,
but his friend remained standing and explanatory. "If you don't mind, in
this room, this is my habit. From the door to the desk and from the desk
to the door. That shakes up my imagination gently; and don't you see
what a good thing it is that there's no window for her to fly out of? The
eternal standing as I write (I stop at that bureau and put it down, when
anything comes, and so we go on) was rather wearisome at first, but we
adopted it with an eye to the long run; you're in better order--if your
legs don't break down!--and you can keep it up for more years. Oh we're
practical--we're practical!" St. George repeated, going to the table and
taking up all mechanically the bundle of proofs. But, pulling off the
wrapper, he had a change of attention that appealed afresh to our hero.