“You bet it isn't.” “It's the families I'm talking about. In a small town you know all about people, who they live with, and all that.” He was laboriously talking down to her. “But here--” He saw that she was not interested. Something he had said started an unpleasant train of thought in her mind. She was walking faster, and frowning slightly. To cheer her he said: “I am keeping an eye out for the large young man in the sack suit, you know. If he jumps me, just yell for the police, will you? Because I'll probably not be able to.” “I wish you'd let me forget him.” “I will. The question is, will he?” But he saw that the subject was unpleasant. “We'll have to do this again. It's been mighty nice of you to come.” “You'll have to ask me, the next time.” “I certainly will. But I think I'd better let your family look me over first, just so they'll know that I don't customarily steal the silver spoons when I'm asked out to dinner. Or anything like that.” “We're just--folks.” “So am I, awfully--folks! And pretty lonely folks at that. Something like that pup that has adopted me, only worse. He's got me, but I haven't anybody.” “You'll not be lonely long.” She glanced up at him. “That's cheering. Why?” “Well, you are the sort that makes friends,” she said, rather vaguely. “That crowd that drops into the shop on the evenings you're there--they're crazy about you. They like to hear you talk.” “Great Scott! I suppose I've been orating all over the place!” “No, but you've got ideas. You give them something to think about when they go home. I wish I had a mind like yours.” He was so astonished that he stopped dead on the pavement. “My Scottish blood,” he said despondently. “A Scot is always a reformer and a preacher, in his heart. I used to orate to my mother, but she liked it. She is a Scot, too. Besides, it put her to sleep. But I thought I'd outgrown it.” “You don't make speeches. I didn't mean that.” But he was very crestfallen during the remainder of the way, and rather silent. He wondered, that night before he went to bed, if he had been didactic to Lily Cardew. He had aired his opinions to her at length, he knew. He groaned as he took off his coat in his cold little room at the boarding house which lodged and fed him, both indifferently, for the sum of twelve dollars per week. Jinx, the little hybrid dog, occupied the seat of his one comfortable chair. He eyed the animal somberly. “Hereafter, old man,” he said, “when I feel a spell of oratory coming on, you will have to be the audience.” He took his dressing gown from a nail behind the door, and commenced to put it on. Then he took it off again and wrapped the dog in it. “I can read in bed, which you can't,” he observed. “Only, I can't help thinking, with all this town to pick from, you might have chosen a fellow with two dressing gowns and two chairs.” * * * * *