“Thank you,” said the duke. “It is worth writing down. Thank you.” “I did not talk about the books because I wanted to get used to them before I began to talk,” Tembarom explained. “I wanted to get somewhere. I'd never read a book through in my life before. Never wanted to. Never had one and never had time. When night came, I was dog-tired and dog-ready to drop down and sleep.” Here was a situation of interest. A young man of odd, direct shrewdness, who had never read a book through in his existence, had plunged suddenly into the extraordinarily varied literary resources of the Temple Barholm library. If he had been a fool or a genius one might have guessed at the impression made on him; being T. Tembarom, one speculated with secret elation. The primitiveness he might reveal, the profundities he might touch the surface of, the unexpected ends he might reach, suggested the opening of vistas. “I have often thought that if books attracted you the library would help you to get through a good many of the hundred and thirty-six hours a day you've spoken of, and get through them pretty decently,” commented the duke. “That's what's happened,” Tembarom answered. “There's not so many now. I can cut 'em off in chunks.” “How did it begin?” He listened with much pleasure while Tembarom told him how it had begun and how it had gone on. “I'd been having a pretty bad time one day. Strangeways had been worse--a darned sight worse--just when I thought he was better. I'd been trying to help him to think straight; and suddenly I made a break, somehow, and must have touched exactly the wrong spring. It seemed as if I set him nearly crazy. I had to leave him to Pearson right away. Then it poured rain steady for about eight hours, and I couldn't get out and `take a walk.' Then I went wandering into the picture-gallery and found Lady Joan there, looking at Miles Hugo. And she ordered me out, or blamed near it.” “You are standing a good deal,” said the duke. “Yes, I am--but so is she.” He set his hard young jaw and nursed his knee, staring once more at the velvet shadows. “The girl in the book I picked up--” he began. “The first book?” his host inquired. Tembarom nodded. “The very first. I was smoking my pipe at night, after every one else had gone to bed, and I got up and began to wander about and stare at the names of the things on the shelves. I was thinking over a whole raft of things--a whole raft of them--and I didn't know I was doing it, until something made me stop and read a name again. It was a book called `Good-by, Sweetheart, Good-by,' and it hit me straight. I wondered what it was about, and I wondered where old Temple Barholm had fished up a thing like that. I never heard he was that kind.” “He was a cantankerous old brute,” said the Duke of Stone with candor, “but he chanced to be an omnivorous novel-reader. Nothing was too sentimental for him in his later years.”