There wasn't so much movement in More as there had been a little time back.
Miltoun opened the tome, and a small book-louse who had been sleeping on the word 'Tranibore,' began to make its way slowly towards the very centre of the volume.
"I see it's genuine," said Miltoun.
"It's not to read, my lord," the little man warned him: "Hardly safe to turn the pages.

As I was saying--I've not had a better piece this year.
I haven't really!" "Shrewd old dreamer," muttered Miltoun; "the Socialists haven't got beyond him, even now." The little man's eyes blinked, as though apologizing for the views of Thomas More.
"Well," he said, "I suppose he was one of them.

I forget if your lordship's very strong on politics ?" Miltoun smiled.
"I want to see an England, Rimall, something like the England of Mores dream.

But my machinery will be different.

I shall begin at the top." The little man nodded.
"Quite so, quite so," he said; "we shall come to that, I dare say." "We must, Rimall." And Miltoun turned the page.
The little man's face quivered.
"I don't think," he said, "that book's quite strong enough for you, my lord, with your taste for reading.