Manchurian Books

Mr. Moggs, being of a studious and refined disposition, had just
decided--after a careful search for a congenial subject in which he
would not be constantly reminded of soap--to devote himself to the
History of the Thebaid, when this cousin died suddenly and precipitated
responsibilities upon him. In the frankness of conviviality, Moggs
bewailed the uncongenial task thus thrust into his hands, and my uncle
offered to lighten his burden by a partnership then and there. They even
got to terms--extremely muzzy terms, but terms nevertheless.
Each gentleman wrote the name and address of the other on his cuff, and
they separated in a mood of brotherly carelessness, and next morning
neither seems to have thought to rescue his shirt from the wash until
it was too late. My uncle made a painful struggle--it was one of my
business mornings--to recall name and particulars.
"He was an aquarium-faced, long, blond sort of chap, George, with
glasses and a genteel accent," he said.
I was puzzled. "Aquarium-faced?"
"You know how they look at you.


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