'Well--about the delicate matter you were going to talk over with me,
Bruce?'
'Oh yes. Oh, by the way,' he said, 'before we go into that, I wonder if
you could help me about something? You could do me a really great
service by helping me to find a certain book.'
'Why, of course, Bruce, with pleasure. What is the book?' asked the
amiable wife, looking alert.
Bruce looked at her with pity.
'What is the book? My dear Edith, don't you see I shouldn't have come to
you about it if I knew what the book was.'
'I beg your pardon, Bruce,' said Edith, now feeling thoroughly in the
wrong, and looking round the room. 'But if you can't give me the name of
the book I scarcely see how I can find it.'
'And if I knew its name I shouldn't want your assistance.'
It seemed a deadlock.
Going to the bookcase, Edith said:
'Can't you give me some idea of what it's like?'
'Certainly I can. I've seen it a hundred times in this very room; in
fact it's always here, except when it's wanted.'
Edith went down on her knees in front of the bookcase and
cross-questioned Bruce on the physiognomy of the volume. She asked
whether it was a novel, whether it was blue, whether it belonged to the
library, whether it was Stevenson, whether it was French, or if it was
suitable for the children.
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