Lorrimer drew near to the table and coolly looked over the papers. Dickie watched him with rather a startled air and a flush that might have seemed one of resentment if his eyes had not worn their impersonal, observing look. "All poetry," muttered Lorrimer. "But some of it only a line--or a word." He read aloud,--"'Close to the sun in lonely lands--' what's that from, anyway?" "A poem about an eagle by a man named Alfred Tennyson. Ain't it the way a feller feels, though, up on the top of a rocky peak?" "Never been on the top of a rocky peak--kind of a sky-scraper sensation, isn't it? What's all this--'An' I have been faithful to thee, Cynara, after my fashion'?" Dickie's face again flamed in spite of himself. "It's a love poem. The feller couldn't forget. He couldn't keep himself from loving that-away because he loved so much the other way--well, sir, you better read it for yourself. It's a mighty real sort of a poem--if you were that sort of a feller, I mean." "And this is 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol' And here's a sonnet, 'It was not like your great and gracious ways'--? Coventry Patmore. Well, young man, you've a catholic taste." "I don't rightly belong to any church," said Dickie gravely. "My mother is a Methodist." Lorrimer moved; abruptly away and moved abruptly back. "Where were you educated, Dick?" "I was raised in Millings"--Dickie named the Western State--"I didn't get only to grammar school. My father needed me to work in his hotel." "Too bad!" sighed Lorrimer. "Well, I'll bid you good-night. And many thanks. You've got a fine place here." Again he sighed. "I dare say--one of these days--" He was absent and irritable again. Dickie accompanied him down the three long, narrow flights and climbed back to his loneliness. He was, however, very much excited by his adventure, excited and disturbed. He felt restless. He walked about and whistled to himself.