Censor. By its mass, it is like a tea-caddy, indeed.
Dean. Methinks it is like a clothes-horse.
Censor. It is backed like a clothes-horse.
Dean. Or like a tub.
Censor. Very like a tub.
Dean. They fool me to the top of my bent.
Enter from opposite sides the Belfry as Box, and the Bodley Librarian as Cox.
Librarian. Who are you, Sir?
Belfry. If it comes to that, Sir, who are you?
They exchange cards.
Librarian. I should feel obliged to you if you could accommodate me with a more protuberant Bell-tower, Mr. B. The one you have now seems to me to consist of corners only, with nothing whatever in the middle.
Belfry. Anything to accommodate you, Mr. Cox. (Places jauntily on his head a small model of the skeleton of an umbrella, upside down).
Librarian. Ah, tell me—in mercy tell me—have you such a thing as a redeeming feature,