The Place of the Lion by Charles Williams Page B

here,” Mrs. Rockbotham said. “Lives in the white house at the upper corner of the market-place—you must have seen it. Just beyond Martin the bookseller’s—his assistant was one of our Group too. I suppose Mr. Berringer invited him, though of course he was hardly of the same social class as most of us.”
    â€œPerhaps Mr. Berringer thought that the study of the world of principles——” Anthony allowed a gesture to complete his sentence.
    â€œNo doubt,” Mrs. Rockbotham answered. “Though personally I always think it better and simpler if like sticks to like. It simply distracts one’s attention if the man next you rattles his false teeth or can’t get up from his chair easily.”
    â€œThat,” Anthony said, feeling that the confession was due to truth, “is undeniably so. Perhaps it means that we haven’t got very far.”
    Mrs. Rockbotham shook her head. “It’s always been so,” she said, “and I shouldn’t myself find I could concentrate nearly so well if Mr. Berringer hadn’t shaved for a week. I don’t see the smallest use in pretending that it isn’t so.”
    â€œDidn’t this young man—what did you say his name was?—shave then?” Anthony asked.
    â€œRichardson—yes, of course—I was only illustrating,” the lady said. “Well, if you must go——” as Anthony stood up firmly. “If you see Miss Tighe do tell her that I’m still ashamed.”
    â€œI’m sure Miss Tighe wouldn’t wish you to be anything of the sort,” Anthony lied with brazen politeness; and, treasuring his two pieces of information, departed. It was at least a small piece of luck that the two places were near together.
    From outside the bookseller’s he peered cautiously in. A nice-looking old gentleman was showing children’s books to two ladies; a tall gaunt young man was putting other books into shelves. Anthony hoped that the first gentleman was Mr. Martin and the other Mr. Richardson. He went in with a quick determined step, and straight up to the young man, who turned to meet him.
    â€œHave you by any chance an edition of St. Ignatius’s treatise against the Gnostics?” he asked in a low clear voice.
    The young assistant looked gravely back. “Not for sale, I’m afraid,” he said. “Nor, if it comes to that, the Gnostic treatises against St. Ignatius.”
    â€œQuite,” Anthony answered. “Are you Mr. Richardson?”
    â€œYes,” the other said.
    â€œThen I apologize and all that, but I should very much like to talk to you about modern Gnosticism or what appear to be its equivalents,” Anthony said rapidly. “If you don’t mind. I assure you I’m perfectly serious—though I do come from Mrs. Rockbotham. Would you, could you, spare me a little time?”
    â€œNot here very well,” Richardson said. “But if you could come round to my rooms about half-past nine, I should be glad to discuss anything with you—anything possible.”
    â€œSo many things seem to be possible,” Anthony murmured. “At half-past nine, then? And thank you. I’m not really being silly.” He liked the other’s equable reception of the intrusion, and the reserved watchfulness of his manner.
    â€œ17 Bypath Villas,” Richardson said. “It’s not more than ten minutes away. Along that street, down the second on the right, and then it’s the third to the left. No, I’m afraid we haven’t it”—this as Mr. Martin, having disposed of his own customers, was drawing near.
    â€œThen,” said Anthony, looking hastily round, with a vague sense of owing a return to the bookseller for the use he had made of the shop, “I’ll have that.” He picked up from a chance shelf of reduced library copies a volume with the title: Mistresse of Majesty; the lives of