same book.

"Do you read Euripides?" he asked with naïve wonder.

"Yes."

"And Æschylus and Sophocles and Aristoph--?" Mr. Rickman became
embarrassed as he recalled certain curious passages, and in his
embarrassment he rushed upon his doom--"and--and 'Omer?"

It was a breakdown unparalleled in his history. Never since his
childhood had he neglected the aspirate in Homer. A flush made
manifest his agony. He frowned, and gazed at her steadily, as if he
defied her to judge him by that lapse.

"Yes," said the lady; but she was not thinking of Homer.

"By Jove," he murmured pensively. His eyes turned from her and
devoured the text. He was torn between abject admiration of the lady
and of the book.

"Which do you like best?" he asked suddenly. Æschylus or Sophocles?
But it's an absurd question."

"Why absurd?"

"Because they're so different."

"Are they?" To tell the truth she was not thinking of them any more
than she had been thinking of Homer.