So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation; although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most reticent mortals in the world. "But now, having the leisure," she continued, "I have not the brains!" "I never knew any writer who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly. "Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested. "Why don't you read?" he said. "There is a good library here. It contains all the books we don't want to read." "I am tired of reading," Bernardine said. "I seem to have been reading all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps, a second-hand book-shop, and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They have not done me much good, nor any one else either." "No, probably not," he said. "But now that you have left off reading, you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough. It is wonderful how much one does learn when one does not read. It is almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not occupy yourself with cheese-mites?" "I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites." "Perhaps not, at first; but all the same they form a subject which is very engaging. Or any branch of bacteriology." "Well, if you were to lend me your microscope, perhaps I might begin." "I could not do that," he answered quickly. "I never lend my things." "No, I did not suppose you would," she said. "I knew I was safe in making the suggestion." "You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading," he said. "Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending my things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have the misfortune to linger on as I do you will know that it is perfectly legitimate to be selfish in small things, _if one has made the one great sacrifice_." "And what may that be?" She asked so eagerly that he looked at her, and then saw how worn and tired her face was; and the words which he was intending to speak, died on his lips. "Look at those asses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. "Could you manage to enjoy yourself in that way? That might do you good." "Yes," she said; "but it would not be any pleasure to me." She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable.