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He liked Eames; he admired that scholarly detachment. He, too, might
end in annotating some masterpiece--who knows? To be a
bibliographer--what a calm, studious life!
"I think I'll go to Eames," he remarked.
"Really? A colourless creature, that Eames. As dry as a stick; a
typical Don. I promised him a mineralogical map, by the way. You might
tell him I haven't forgotten, will you? I wonder what you can see in
the man?"
"I rather like him," said Denis. "He knows what he wants."
"That is not enough, my young friend!" replied Marten with decision. "A
fellow must want something sensible."
"What do you call sensible?"
"Sanidin, and things like that. Things with pretty names. Eh, Phipps?"
Denis said nothing.
His friend continued jovially:
"The tavern mood is upon me. I am going to Luisella's to get a drink.
One gets sick of that Club. Besides, I've taken rather a fancy to that
younger sister. The second youngest, I mean; the one with the curly
hair--you know! I only wish I knew a bit more Latin.


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