But Mr. Bosk did not retire. Standing there in his favourite and habitual attitude, the attitude assumed by our ancestors (of whom, indeed, old Mr. Bosk was one) in front of the half-draped marble column of the photographer’s studio, he looked at me, faintly smiling through his thin white beard. The third button of his waistcoat was undone and his right hand, like a half-posted letter, was inserted in the orifice. He rested his weight on a rigid right leg. The other leg was slightly bent and the heel of one touching the toe of the other, his left foot made with his right a perfect right angle. I could see that I was in for a reproof. “What is it, Mr. Bosk?” I asked. Among the sparse hairs Mr. Bosk’s smile became piercingly sweet. He put his head archly on one side. His voice when he spoke was mellifluous. On these occasions when I was to be dressed down and put in my place his courtesy degenerated into a kind of affected girlish coquetry. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Chelifer,” he said mincingly, “I think you’ll find that _rabear_ in Spanish does not mean ‘to wag the tail,’ as you say in your leader on the derivation of the word ‘rabbit,’ so much as ‘to wag the hind quarters.’” “Wag the hind quarters, Mr. Bosk?” I said. “But that sounds to me a very difficult feat.” “Not in Spain, apparently,” said Mr. Bosk, almost giggling. “But this is England, Mr. Bosk.” “Nevertheless, my authority is no less than Skeat himself.” And triumphantly, with the air of one who, at a critical moment of the game, produces a fifth ace, Mr. Bosk brought forward his left hand, which he had been keeping mysteriously behind his back. It held a dictionary; a strip of paper marked the page. Mr. Bosk laid it, opened, on the table before me; with a thick nail he pointed “‘... or possibly,’ I read aloud, ‘from Spanish _Rabear_, to wag the hind quarters.’ Right as usual, Mr. Bosk. I’ll alter it in the proof.” “Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Bosk with a mock humility. Inwardly he was exulting in his triumph. He picked up his dictionary, repeated his contemptuously courteous bow and walked with a gliding noiseless motion towards the door. On the threshold he paused. “I remember that the question arose once before, sir,” he said; his voice was poisonously honied. “In Mr. Parfitt’s time,” and he slipped out, closing the door quietly behind him. It was a Parthian shot. The name of Mr. Parfitt was meant to wound me to the quick, to bring the blush of shame to my cheek. For had not Mr. Parfitt been the perfect, complete and infallible editor? Whereas I.... Mr. Bosk left it to my own conscience to decide what I was.