Paul looked unhappy. "It worries me," he said. "It worries me dreadfully. He was so nice and so silly and"—the corners of Paul’s mouth went down—"and ... he died in the end." "I quite agree with you," said the man. "It _is_ worrying. Don’t let us talk about it." Thor suddenly sat up on his haunches and tried to lick Paul’s face. "You seem," said Paul, "to be very fond of reading, you’ve such a splendid lot of books. Do you ever, by any chance, read at meals?" Paul held him with stern, searching eyes. "Only when I’m alone," the man said primly. "Never when people are there?" Paul asked, fixing him with a gaze that seemed to search his very soul. "Well ... only at tea-time ... occasionally.... Why do you ask?" "Because," Paul answered, "they’re all so down on me for doing it. I always want to read at tea-time, and they won’t let me. Now I shall tell them you do it; that’ll surprise ’em." "Oh, don’t!" the man urged, "don’t give me away. They’d be so shocked." "Of course, I shan’t say anything if you’d rather I didn’t," Paul remarked magnanimously, "but I thought if I just mentioned a grown-up gentleman did it they couldn’t be so down on me! ... But I truly won’t if you’d rather not. I guessed you did it the minute I saw you." "I’m quite certain neither of us ought to," said the man, "but it _is_ a temptation ... when the conversation is dull." "It’s often jolly dull," Paul groaned—and at that moment a gong sounded. "That’s for luncheon," said the man. "Are you hungry?" "I’m starving, and do you think there will be any little bits for Thor?" "Sure of it," said the man. "Would you like to wash? And do you require any ... assistance?" The man looked down at Paul; he had to look rather a long way, for Paul was very small for his age. Perhaps it was that made him ask. Anyway Paul was not offended. "I can wash all right," he said, "but nurse generally gives my hair a bit of a do—but if you don’t mind I don’t." They went up some steps and through a glass door into another room—more like other people’s rooms this—tidy and arranged like other drawing-rooms, then across the hall to the dining-room, where an elderly parlour-maid with a kind face put a fat book on Paul’s chair to make it high enough. He was desperately hungry, and the lunch was very good, but he couldn’t have enjoyed it as much if the kind-looking parlour-maid had not brought a big plate of scraps for Thor, and spread a duster under it. Paul liked his host. He liked the sense of good fellowship, the absence of patronage, the unusual reticence that abstained from questions as to why he was there at all. "Do you know my father?" he asked presently. "I’m afraid not," said the man, "but if you tell me his name I dare say I may have heard of him." "He’s not at all like me," Paul announced. "He’s awfully sensible, every one says that, but he’s a most good-natured man and kind as kind. Surely you must know Squire Staniland?"