"It must be most interesting, this life of a pugilist," she said once, adding with a sigh, "I wish I knew more about it. Tell me: why do you fight?--Oh, aside from money reasons." (This latter to forestall Stubener). "Do you enjoy fighting? Are you stirred by it, by pitting yourself against other men? I hardly know how to express what I mean, so you must be patient with me." Pat and Stubener began speaking together, but for once Pat bore his manager down. "I didn't care for it at first--" "You see, it was too dead easy for him," Stubener interrupted. "But later," Pat went on, "when I encountered the better fighters, the real big clever ones, where I was more--" "On your mettle?" she suggested. "Yes; that's it, more on my mettle, I found I did care for it ... a great deal, in fact. But still, it's not so absorbing to me as it might be. You see, while each battle is a sort of problem which I must work out with my wits and muscle, yet to me the issue is never in doubt--" "He's never had a fight go to a decision," Stubener proclaimed. "He's won every battle by the knock-out route." "And it's this certainty of the outcome that robs it of what I imagine must be its finest thrills," Pat concluded. "Maybe you'll get some of them thrills when you go up against Jim Hanford," said the manager. Pat smiled, but did not speak. "Tell me some more," she urged, "more about the way you feel when you are fighting." And then Pat amazed his manager, Miss Sangster, and himself, by blurting out: "It seems to me I don't want to talk with you on such things. It's as if there are things more important for you and me to talk about. I--" He stopped abruptly, aware of what he was saying but unaware of why he was saying it. "Yes," she cried eagerly. "That's it. That is what makes a good interview--the real personality, you know." But Pat remained tongue-tied, and Stubener wandered away on a statistical comparison of his champion's weights, measurements, and expansions with those of Sandow, the Terrible Turk, Jeffries, and the other modern strong men. This was of little interest to Maud Sangster, and she showed that she was bored. Her eyes chanced to rest on the Sonnets. She picked the book up and glanced inquiringly at Stubener. "That's Pat's," he said. "He goes in for that kind of stuff, and color photography, and art exhibits, and such things. But for heaven's sake don't publish anything about it. It would ruin his reputation."