‘Dreadful!’ I joined in the game.

‘Jane!’

‘Did you have a comfortable journey down?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Well, then, Mary!’ Mr Brindley yielded.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Loring, for your kind assistance,’ said his wife.  ‘Yes, dearest?’

Mr Brindley glanced at me over his second glass of beer.

‘If those confounded kids are going to have mumps,’ he addressed his words apparendy into the interior of the glass, ’it probably means the doctor, and the doctor means money, and I shan’t be able to afford the Hortulus Animoe.’

I opened my ears.

‘My husband goes stark staring mad sometimes,’ said Mrs Brindley to me.  ’It lasts for a week or so, and pretty nearly lands us in the workhouse.  This time it’s the Hortulus Animoe.  Do you know what it is?  I don’t.’

‘No,’ I said, and the prestige of the British Museum trembled.  Then I had a vague recollection.  ’There’s an illuminated manuscript of that name in the Imperial Library of Vienna, isn’t there?’

‘You’ve got it in one,’ said Mr Brindley.  ’Wife, pass those walnuts.’

‘You aren’t by any chance buying it?’ I laughed.

‘No,’ he said.  ’A Johnny at Utrecht is issuing a facsimile of it, with all the hundred odd miniatures in colour.  It will be the finest thing in reproduction ever done.  Only seventy-five copies for England.’

‘How much?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said he, with a preliminary look at his wife,’thirty-three pounds.’

‘Thirty-three pounds!’ she screamed.  ‘You never told me.’

‘My wife never will understand,’ said Mr Brindley, ’that complete confidence between two human beings is impossible.’

‘I shall go out as a milliner, that’s all,’ Mrs Brindley returned.  ’Remember, the Dictionary of National Biography isn’t paid for yet.’

’I’m glad I forgot that, otherwise I shouldn’t have ordered the Hortulus.’

‘You’ve not ordered it?’

’Yes, I have.  It’ll be here tomorrow—­at least the first part will.’

Mrs Brindley affected to fall back dying in her chair.

‘Quite mad!’ she complained to me.  ’Quite mad.  It’s a hopeless case.’

But obviously she was very proud of the incurable lunatic.

‘But you’re a book-collector!’ I exclaimed, so struck by these feats of extravagance in a modest house that I did not conceal my amazement.

‘Did you think I collected postage-stamps?’ the husband retorted.  ’No, I’m not a book-collector, but our doctor is.  He has a few books, if you like.  Still, I wouldn’t swop him; he’s much too fond of fashionable novels.’

‘You know you’re always up his place,’ said the wife; ’and I wonder what I should do if it wasn’t for the doctor’s novels!’ The doctor was evidently a favourite of hers.

‘I’m not always up at his place,’ the husband contradicted.  ’You know perfectly well I never go there before midnight.  And he knows perfectly well that I only go because he has the best whisky in the town.  By the way, I wonder whether he knows that Simon Fuge is dead.  He’s got one of his etchings.  I’ll go up.’