It nerves an admonished ambition.
He was ushered into a London house's library, looking over a niggard enclosure of gravel and dull grass, against a wall where ivy dribbled.
An armchair was beside the fireplace.

To right and left of it a floreate company of books in high cases paraded shoulder to shoulder, without a gap; grenadiers on the line.

Weyburn read the titles on their scarlet-and-blue facings.

They were approved English classics; honoured veterans, who have emerged from the conflict with contemporary opinion, stamped excellent, or have been pushed by the roar of contemporaneous applauses to wear the leather-and-gilt uniform of our Immortals, until a more qualmish posterity disgorges them.

The books had costly bindings.
Lord Ormont's treatment of Literature appeared to resemble Lady Charlotte's, in being reverential and uninquiring.