paper.
Take some slips from the counter going out.
―Those who are married, Mr Best, douce, herald, said, all save one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.
He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.
Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the Shrew .
―You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?
―No, Stephen said promptly.
―Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don’t you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.
John Eclection doubly smiled.
―Well, in that case, he said, I don’t see why you should expect payment for it since you don’t believe it yourself.
Dowden believes there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say no more.
Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.
I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That