Reginald was turning over in his mind something which echoed down from babydom. He remembered a little book among his mother’s choice few, with letters on the back. Did he not in childhood spell out the letters there P-E-T-R-A-R-C-H? And what else was it he “knew about the old fellow”? Oh, he had an idea now. He dimly remembered many talks with his mother; but he thought he would let these people talk on with their high themes, while he sat pulling out his mustache and getting a word or two together in such good form as would show this snob whom he was. “All I have to say then, is,” commenced the little Captain Grove coolly, “Petrarch is rather coming up in reputation when he finds himself able to keep up with the thoughts of Miss Daksha. I knew old Pete; he was one of my mother’s favorites. You know he was mashed on a girl called ‘Laura.’” A merry peal from Ethelbert quite cleared the atmosphere; but, in the sharp, bright handling of the subject that followed, Reginald felt himself completely stranded again. So he had shrewdness enough to retire on his laurels, and to take his departure at a moment when a pretty little sentiment as to his arrested development along very nice lines of life, had quite taken possession of Mrs. Daksha, as well as of the rest. He walked direct from this visit to a bookstore and inquired for Petrarch’s works, much to the amazement of the man who had hitherto supplied him with another style of literature. And then in his room in his hotel he recommenced an acquaintance with that author, or his mother, or with the moss rosebud which he had placed at his elbow, in a vase, or with Miss Ethelbert, or with himself. With which, or with how many of these he recommenced an acquaintance that evening, it would have been hard for him to say. But when he arose from the long half-reverie he was in a new frame of mind; and, too, he fancied he had stolen a march on Miss Daksha in regard to at least one book. CHAPTER II. After dinner Reginald seated himself in the office of his hotel. There were the usual number of men about the place, talking and smoking, and watching the women who passed through the office now and then. Hotel life, with its ordinary distractions of seeing and being seen, and newsmongering and time-killing, was rather a bore to Reginald. But he had had little idea of anything else, unless it were a big house on something of the same plan of social divertisement and high hilarity. He had had spells of the blues, of course, in which he longed for something indefinable; and now that his nerves and health were breaking down pretty fast, he had these blues more often than ever. His regular cure for these attacks was a visit to the bar, and then a couple of cigars after it, then more blues, and then more cigars; so, of course, a permanent removal of the cause and the effect did not seem very likely to be secured.