Shelton and Crocker took two other chairs; they too seemed thinking, “Yes, why did we come and wake him up like this?” And Shelton, who could not tell the reason why, took refuge in the smoke of his cigar.  The panelled walls were hung with prints of celebrated Greek remains; the soft, thick carpet on the floor was grateful to his tired feet; the backs of many books gleamed richly in the light of the oil lamps; the culture and tobacco smoke stole on his senses; he but vaguely comprehended Crocker’s amiable talk, vaguely the answers of his little host, whose face, blinking behind the bowl of his huge meerschaum pipe, had such a queer resemblance to a moon.  The door was opened, and a tall creature, whose eyes were large and brown, whose face was rosy and ironical, entered with a manly stride.

“Oh!” he said, looking round him with his chin a little in the air, “am I intruding, Turl?”

The little host, blinking more than ever, murmured,

“Not at all, Berryman—­take a pew!”

The visitor called Berryman sat down, and gazed up at the wall with his fine eyes.

Shelton had a faint remembrance of this don, and bowed; but the newcomer sat smiling, and did not notice the salute.

“Trimmer and Washer are coming round,” he said, and as he spoke the door opened to admit these gentlemen.  Of the same height, but different appearance, their manner was faintly jocular, faintly supercilious, as if they tolerated everything.  The one whose name was Trimmer had patches of red on his large cheek-bones, and on his cheeks a bluish tint.  His lips were rather full, so that he had a likeness to a spider.  Washer, who was thin and pale, wore an intellectual smile.

The little fat host moved the hand that held the meerschaum.

“Crocker, Shelton,” he said.

An awkward silence followed.  Shelton tried to rouse the cultured portion of his wits; but the sense that nothing would be treated seriously paralysed his faculties; he stayed silent, staring at the glowing tip of his cigar.  It seemed to him unfair to have intruded on these gentlemen without its having been made quite clear to them beforehand who and what he was; he rose to take his leave, but Washer had begun to speak.

“Madame Bovary!” he said quizzically, reading the title of the book on the little fat man’s bookrest; and, holding it closer to his boiled-looking eyes, he repeated, as though it were a joke, “Madame Bovary!”

“Do you mean to say, Turl, that you can stand that stuff?” said Berryman.

As might have been expected, this celebrated novel’s name had galvanised him into life; he strolled over to the bookcase, took down a book, opened it, and began to read, wandering in a desultory way about the room.

“Ha!  Berryman,” said a conciliatory voice behind—­it came from Trimmer, who had set his back against the hearth, and grasped with either hand a fistful of his gown—­“the book’s a classic!”