"I forgot my glasses," said he. "I've read myself almost blind. And anyway, I can't read any more. Two hours of this is like two hours of Euripides; it takes life out of you. Was he really here, in this house, in Waltonville?" Dr. Scott drew the word out to a dreary length. "Do you think anything can be made of them?" "My dear Lister! You know and I know that they can be published as they stand. There are lines which might be annotated, but that is all. They are unique, priceless. They help to redeem the nation from charges such as Utterly's. He was right about them in the wildest of his extravagance." Dr. Lister thrust his hands into his pockets. "It would help Mrs. Lister to see that they should be published if--" "She will surely publish them with pride and joy!" "I didn't mean that exactly as it sounded. I mean, she would, I am sure, be glad if you would arrange to select, to edit--that is if--when they are published." Dr. Scott put his hand again between his eyes and the light. If he could have chosen a task from all the tasks in the world, barring the greater work of the creative writer, it would have been such a task as this. He rose and slipped his hand into the front of his coat. In this position he had received Mrs. Scott's "Yes." This moment was to be classed with that; it was later to be placed above it in quality and in importance. "I should count myself the most fortunate of men," said he. "I envy Mrs. Lister her relationship to Basil Everman. I wish--" The hall clock had begun to strike and he paused to count the strokes. "It is time for me to go. When can this work begin? There are only six more weeks of vacation." His eagerness made Dr. Lister uneasy. "When I have talked it over with Mrs. Lister I will let you know at once," said he. Then, having closed the door behind his friend, he stood thinking deeply. CHAPTER XXI A QUESTION PUT TO RICHARD Mary Alcestis did not dream, as she lay comfortably in her bed the next morning breathing the cooler air and watching the shadows on the wall, that there moved about her house a plotter against her peace far more dangerous than an enemy from without. She thought that her husband looked at her with unusual gravity and she was touched by his solicitude, not suspecting that he searched her face for signs of recovery in order that he might deal her a cruel blow. At the end of the second day she rose and sat by her window looking out over the pleasant greensward and recalling the hours when she had sat there with tiny Richard beside her. She felt happier; it did not seem rational that Mrs. Bent would speak now after having been silent for so many years, especially if poor Basil were allowed to sink once more into oblivion. When his manuscripts were really destroyed, she believed that the course of life would be again smooth.