Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at the frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest. He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sat down at his right and the priest at the other side of the table closed his copy of The Tablet with an angry snap and stood up.

Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in a softer voice:

-Pawn to king’s fourth.

-We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has gone to complain.

Dixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying:

-Our men retired in good order.

-With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the title-page of Cranly’s book on which was printed Diseases of the Ox.

As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said:

-Cranly, I want to speak to you.

Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and passed out, his wellshod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the staircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon repeated:

-Pawn to king’s bloody fourth.

-Put it that way if you like, Dixon said.

He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his plump clean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring.

As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them. Under the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with pleasure and he was heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey.

-Good evening, captain, said Cranly, halting.

-Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubblegrown monkeyish face.

-Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the windows open upstairs.

Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish monkey-puckered face pursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure: and its voice purred:

-Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful.

-There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting, Dixon said.

Cranly smiled and said kindly:

-The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn’t that so, captain?

-What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked. The Bride of Lammer-moor?

-I love old Scott, the flexible lips said. I think he writes something