The room was full of a profusion of little casts, thick with dust upon the shoulders, the hair, the eyelids, on every part that projected outward.
"By-the-bye," I said, "that's a death-mask of Cromwell." "Ah!" he answered, "I knew there _was_...." He moved very slowly toward it, rather as if he did not wish to bring it within his field of view.

He stopped before reaching it and pivotted slowly to face me.
"About my book," he opened suddenly, "I have so little time." His briskness dropped into a half complaint, like a faintly suggested avowal of impotence.

"I have been at it four years now.

It struck me--you seemed to coincide so singularly with my ideas." His speech came wavering to a close, but he recommenced it apologetically--as if he wished me to help him out.
"I went to see Smithson the publisher about it, and he said he had no objection...." He looked appealingly at me.

I kept silence.
"Of course, it's not your sort of work.