She was glowering upon universal stupidity one morning when he appeared on deck with a carpet bag, from which, after comfortably establishing himself in his steamer chair, he took little white volume after little white volume. Patience’s curiosity overcame her. She went forward slowly and stood before him. He looked up sharply. His black eyes, piercing from their shaggy arches, made her twitch her head as if to fling aside some penetrative force. His very beard, silver though it was, had a fierce sidewise twist. His nose was full nostrilled and drooped scornfully. The spectacles he wore served as a sort of lens for the fire of his extraordinary eyes. “Well?” he said gruffly. “Please, sir,” said Patience, humbly, “will you lend me a book?” “Book? I don’t carry children’s literature round with me.” “I don’t read children’s literature.” “Oh, you don’t? Well, not ‘The Chatterbox,’ I suppose; but I have nothing of Pansy’s nor yet of The Duchess.” “I wouldn’t read them if you had,” cried Patience, angrily. “Perhaps I’ve read a good many books that you haven’t re-read so long ago yourself. I’ve read Dickens and Thackeray and Scott, and,” with a shudder, “Gibbon’s ‘Rome’ and Thiers’ ‘French Revolution.’” “Oh, you have? Well, I beg your pardon. Sit down, and I’ll see if I can find something for a young lady of your surprising attainments.” Patience, too pleased to resent sarcasm, applied herself to his elbow. “Why are they all bound alike?” she asked. “This is the Tauchnitz edition of notable English and American books. How is this?” He handed her a volume of Grace Aguilar. “No, sir! I’ve tried her, and she’s a greater bore than Jane Austen.” “Oh, you want a love story, I suppose?” His accentuation was fairly sardonic. “No, I don’t,” she said with an intonation which made him turn and regard her with interest. Then once more he explored his bag. “Will this suit you?” He held out a copy of Carlyle’s “French Revolution.” Patience groaned. “Didn’t I tell you I’d just read Thiers’?” “This isn’t Thiers’. Try it.” And he took no further notice of her. Patience opened the volume, and in a few moments was absorbed. There was something in the storm and blare of the style which struck a responsive chord. She did not raise her head until dinner time. She scarcely spoke until she had finished the volume, and then only to ask for the second. For several days she felt as if the atmosphere was charged with dynamite, and jumped when any one addressed her. The owner of the Tauchnitz watched her curiously. When she had finished the second volume she told him that she did not care for anything more at present. She leaned over the railing most of the day, watching the waves. Toward sunset the gentleman called peremptorily,— “Come here.” Patience stood before his chair. “Well, what do you think of it?” he demanded. “Tell me exactly what your impressions are.”