She laughed at this, though with no very genuine mirth, I marked, and let my 1830 attempt at gallantry pass without other retort. “You seemed interested in the old place yonder.” She indicated Mr. Beasley's house with a nod. “Oh, I understood my blunder,” I said, quickly. “I wish I had known the subject was embarrassing or unpleasant to Mr. Dowden.” “What made you think that?” “Surely,” I said, “you saw how pointedly he cut me off.” “Yes,” she returned, thoughtfully. “He rather did; it's true. At least, I see how you got that impression.” She seemed to muse upon this, letting her eyes fall; then, raising them, allowed her far-away gaze to rest upon the house beyond the fence, and said, “It IS an interesting old place.” “And Mr. Beasley himself--” I began. “Oh,” she said, “HE isn't interesting. That's his trouble!” “You mean his trouble not to--” She interrupted me, speaking with sudden, surprising energy, “I mean he's a man of no imagination.” “No imagination!” I exclaimed. “None in the world! Not one ounce of imagination! Not one grain!” “Then who,” I cried--“or what--is Simpledoria?” “Simple--what?” she said, plainly mystified. “Simpledoria.” “Simpledoria?” she repeated, and laughed. “What in the world is that?” “You never heard of it before?” “Never in my life.” “You've lived next door to Mr. Beasley a long time, haven't you?” “All my life.” “And I suppose you must know him pretty well.” “What next?” she said, smiling. “You said he lived there all alone,” I went on, tentatively. “Except for an old colored couple, his servants.” “Can you tell me--” I hesitated. “Has he ever been thought--well, 'queer'?” “Never!” she answered, emphatically. “Never anything so exciting! Merely deadly and hopelessly commonplace.” She picked up the saucer, now exceedingly empty, and set it upon a shelf by the lattice door. “What was it about--what was that name?--'Simpledoria'?” “I will tell you,” I said. And I related in detail the singular performance of which I had been a witness in the late moonlight before that morning's dawn. As I talked, we half unconsciously moved across the lawn together, finally seating ourselves upon a bench beyond the rose-beds and near the high fence. The interest my companion exhibited in the narration might have surprised me had my nocturnal experience itself been less surprising. She interrupted me now and then with little, half-checked ejaculations of acute wonder, but sat for the most part with her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, her face turned eagerly to mine and her lips parted in half-breathless attention. There was nothing “far away” about her eyes now; they were widely and intently alert.