Mr. Cox's party, to which I referred in prospect a
fortnight ago, was a great success. Mr. Cox, established in a far corner of the London Library's reading-room, ,held regal court while his admirers queued to pay him tribute—people like Lord Moran and Miss Rose Macaulay, Mr. Ivor Brown and the anonymous author of the most admirable article devoted to Mr. Cox in Saturday's Times ; there may have been others still more eminent, but they would have been beyond my ken. Seated, as befits one who is almost a literary monarch (and incidentally a good deal over 80), Mr. Cox talked of the pod old days when he joined the literary staff in 1882, when Mr. Gladstone and Lord Houghton and Lord Curzon and the like came dropping in any day. Incidentally, Mr. Cox became a problem to the Library committee when it decided to fix the retiring age at 65. An ingenious solution was devised. Mr. Cox is retired on a pension equal to his salary—and goes on indefinitely as before.
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