Jack sat silent--he had long since found himself out of his depth--drinking in every word of the talk, his wonderment increasing every moment, not only over Cohen, but over Peter as well, whom he had never before heard so eloquent or so learned, or so entertaining. When at last the little man rose to go, the boy, with one of those spontaneous impulses which was part of his nature, sprang from his seat, found the tailor's hat himself, and conducting him to the door, wished him good-night with all the grace and well-meant courtesy he would show a prince of the blood, should he ever be fortunate enough to meet one. Peter was standing on the mat, his back to the fire, when the boy returned. “Jack, you delight me!” the old fellow cried. “Your father couldn't have played host better. Really, I am beginning to believe I won't have to lock you up in an asylum. You're getting wonderfully sane, my boy,--real human. Jack, do you know that if you keep on this way I shall really begin to love you!” “But what an extraordinary man,” exclaimed Jack, ignoring Peter's compliment and badinage. “Is there anything he does not know?” “Yes,--many things. Oh! a great many things. He doesn't know how to be rude, or ill bred, or purse-proud. He doesn't know how to snub people who are poorer than he is, or to push himself in where he isn't wanted; or to talk behind people's backs after he has accepted their hospitality. Just plain gentleman journeyman tailor, Jack. And now, my boy, be honest. Isn't he a relief after some of the people you and I meet every day?” Jack settled again in his chair. His mind was not at all easy. “Yes, he is, and that makes me afraid I was rude. I didn't mean to be.” “No,--you acted just right. I wanted to draw him out so you could hear, and you must say that he was charming. And the best of it is that he could have talked equally well on a dozen other subjects.” For some time Jack did not answer. Despite Peter's good opinion of him, he still felt that he had either said or done something he should be ashamed of. He knew it was his snap judgment about Cohen that had been the cause of the object lesson he had just received. Peter had not said so in so many words--it was always with a jest or a laugh that he corrected his faults, but he felt their truth all the same. For some minutes he leaned back in his chair, his eyes on the ceiling; then he said in a tone of conviction: “I WAS wrong about Mr. Cohen, Uncle Peter. I am always putting my foot in it. He is an extraordinary man. He certainly is, to listen to, whatever he is in his business.”