“Certainly, but what was all the fighting about?” As the fire was encouraged into a fresher life he answered: “I never knew distinctly. That night a few others and myself went down to the river, through the gardens, were rowed to a little steamer and taken aboard. We sailed down a long river, and afterward a big steamer brought three of us to America. And then to Daleford.” “Why on earth to Daleford?” “Because it was desirable to land me in some amusing metropolis, and I suppose the choice lay between Paris and Daleford. Daleford, of course, won.” “I beg your pardon,” she hastened to say. “My curiosity seems to be running away with me.” “Oh, please do not apologize. There is no secret about Daleford. I only answered in that way as I suddenly realized how refreshing it must be to hear a stranger tell pathetic stories about himself. It is I who apologize. They brought me to Daleford through Mr. Judd’s brother, who was a good friend and was with us at that row.” He stood before the fire with the poker in his hand, and looked down with a smile as he continued: “I believe you have never been to Daleford, but if you were a field-mouse that could sleep all winter, and didn’t care to be disturbed in summer, you would find it an ideal spot. If you were a field-mouse of average social instincts you would never pull through.” “And yet Mr. Fettiplace advises us to go there.” “Oh, that’s for a summer only, and is quite different.” From Daleford they went to other subjects, but to her his own career proved of far greater interest, and the usual topics seemed commonplace and uneventful by comparison. Delicately and with subtle tact, she made one or two efforts to get further information regarding his childhood and the fabulous jewels, but her endeavors were vain. Of himself he talked no more. In a sense, however, she was rewarded by a somewhat surprising discovery in relation to his mental furniture. When the conversation turned incidentally upon literature she found him in the enjoyment of an ignorance so vast and so comprehensive that it caused her, at first, to doubt the sincerity of his own self-conviction. Of her favorite books he had not read one. To him the standard novelists were but names. Of their works he knew nothing. This ignorance he confessed cheerfully and without shame. “But what do you do with yourself?” she demanded. “Do you never read anything?” “Oh, yes; I have not forgotten my letters. For modern facts I read the papers, and for the other side of life I take poetry. But the modern novel is too severe a punishment. It is neither poetry nor wisdom.” Until the two other men came down from the library she had no idea of the lateness of the hour. Mr. Fettiplace laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder and, with a roseate smile, explained the situation. “This fellow is from the country, Miss Molly, and you must excuse him for expecting, when invited out to dinner, that he is to remain to breakfast.”