"Would you like me to read some more of your interesting play?" he asked. "I can’t quite make out what it’s all about beginning in the miggle like this." "I don’t think I’d read it just now," said the man. "You see, I want to talk to you. I want to know all sorts of things." "I came in on purpose to have a chat," Paul remarked genially. "Do you mind if I sit down? My feet do ache so—Lie down, my dear; the gentleman doesn’t mind you." The man pulled up a comfortable chair for Paul. Thor lay down at his feet, and then their host, in his chair by the desk, swung round and faced them. "I suppose now," said Paul, "you haven’t got a missus, have you?" "What makes you think that?" asked the man. "Well, you see, there’s such a muddle of papers, isn’t there? She’d never let you keep it like that. Mr. Mumford says his missus is always cleanin’ and sortin’ and putting things away. Not," he added truthfully, "that Mr. Mumford gets many letters—I’ve never seen any in his house." "It’s not always like this," pleaded the man. "Sometimes it’s awfully tidy." "Oh, but I like it like this," Paul exclaimed eagerly. "Have you a housekeeper and a niece by any chance? Do they tidy for you?" "Why a housekeeper _and_ a niece?" asked the man. "He had, you know—Don Quixote. I’ve been playing at him a good deal lately." "Do you generally play at the people you read about?" "Always," Paul said solemnly. "What would be the good of reading about them else?" "I suppose it’s a good plan," the man said musingly; "it must lead you into many adventures." "It does," Paul said solemnly. "_This_ is one of them, and you, I suppose, are a sort of magician, since you make plays. Do people _really_ act them?" "Not as often as I could wish," the man said, "... but it’s great fun all the same." "Do _you_ play at being the people?" The man shook his head. "I’m afraid not," he said sadly. Then more to himself than to Paul—"That’s the hardest thing of all to do; to look on is much easier." "I don’t care for looking on," said Paul decidedly. "I want to _be_ it all the time." "I suppose we all do to begin with, and then ... we find out that lookers-on see most of the game." "I don’t care much about seeing games. I’d rather play them; it’s much more fun really. Truly it is," he said earnestly. "Doubtless you are right," the man said courteously, "but, you see, we don’t all care for the same games." "When I’m grown up—and rich," Paul announced, "I shall write books——" "You’re wise to be rich first," murmured the man. "I shall write books," Paul continued, "with that little piano, and when I’m not writing I shall play at being all the people in my books—one after the other—at least, all the nice ones, who are successful." "Are the nice ones always successful?" "In the end, always. Of course, they have trials and things." "What about Don Quixote?" asked the man.