Mr. Cox is having a party. Or rather a party
is being had isr Mr. Cox. You may not conceivably know all you should about Mr. Cox. If not, it is because, through either impecuniosity or unwisdom, you are not .a member of the London Library. For there you could, and would, haye seen Mr. Cox any time these last 70 years, or at any rate the last 69, for Mr. Cox entered his 70th year in St. James's Square last month. The library contains over half a million books, and Mr. Cox knows all about all of them—except perhaps a dozen or so. Ask him for something about the amours of ants or Maori musicians or the mother of Mahershalalhashbaz, and without a moment's hesitation he will write a title on a slip of paper, send it upstairs in a little lift and a couple of minutes lately extract from the lift (which has now descended again) a volume—or two or three—constituting the last word on that particular . topic. Prodigious. * ,..*
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