He sat hour after hour among white-leaved books, alone like an idol in an empty church, still except for the passage of his hand from one side of the sheet to another, silent save for an occasional choke, which drove him to extend his pipe a moment in the air.

As he worked his way further and further into the heart of the poet, his chair became more and more deeply encircled by books, which lay open on the floor, and could only be crossed by a careful process of stepping, so delicate that his visitors generally stopped and addressed him from the outskirts.
On the morning after the dance, however, Rachel came into her uncle's room and hailed him twice, "Uncle Ridley," before he paid her any attention.
At length he looked over his spectacles.
"Well ?" he asked.
"I want a book," she replied.

"Gibbon's _History_ _of_ _the_ _Roman_ _Empire_.

May I have it ?" She watched the lines on her uncle's face gradually rearrange themselves at her question.

It had been smooth as a mask before she spoke.
"Please say that again," said her uncle, either because he had not heard or because he had not understood.
She repeated the same words and reddened slightly as she did so.
"Gibbon! What on earth d'you want him for ?" he enquired.
"Somebody advised me to read it," Rachel stammered.
"But I don't travel about with a miscellaneous collection of eighteenth-century historians!" her uncle exclaimed.