“I suppose I’m getting old,” he said; “that’s the reason. The books are as good as ever they were--the old ones, at any rate. Only they don’t interest me any more. It’s because I don’t believe in them as I did. I see through them all. I begin taking them to pieces as soon as I begin to read, and of course romance and glamour won’t stand dissection. Yes, it’s because I’m getting old; that’s it. Those things go with youth. Why, I remember when I would give up a dinner for a new book, when a fresh magazine gave me a positive thrill. I lost that somewhere, somehow; I wonder why. It is a ghastly loss. If I had to live my life over, I would at least try not to destroy my faith in books. It seems to me now just about the one thing worth keeping for old age.” The book slipped from the hand hanging at his side. The embers broke, and, falling together, sent up a tongue of renewed flame. Carringford’s mind was slipping into by-paths. “If one only might live his life over!” he muttered. “If one might be young again!” He was not thinking of books now. A procession of ifs had come filing out of the past--a sequence of opportunities where, with the privilege of choice, he had chosen the wrong, the irrevocable thing. “If one only might try again!” he whispered. “If one only might! Good God!” Something like a soft footfall on the rug caused him to turn suddenly. “I beg your pardon,” he said, rising, “I did not hear you. I was dreaming, I suppose.” A man stood before him, apparently a stranger. “I came quietly,” he said. “I did not wish to break in upon your thought. It interested me, and I felt that I--might be of help.” Carringford was trying to recall the man’s face,--a studious, clean-shaven face,--to associate it and the black-garbed, slender figure with a name. So many frequented his apartment, congenial, idle fellows who came and went, and brought their friends if they liked, that Carringford was not surprised to be confronted by one he could not place. He was about to extend his hand, confessing a lack of memory, when his visitor spoke again. “No,” he said in a gentle, composed voice, “you would not know it if you heard it. I have never been here before. I should not have come now only that, as I was passing below, I heard you thinking you would like to be young again--to live your life over, as they say.” Carringford stared a moment or two at the smooth, clean-cut features and slender, black figure of his visitor before replying. He was used to many curious things, and not many things surprised him. “I beg your pardon,” he repeated, “you mentioned, I believe, that you heard me thinking as you were passing on the street below?” The slender man in black bowed. “Wishing that you might be young again, that you might have another try at the game of life. I believe that was the exact thought.” “And, may I ask, is it your habit to hear persons think?” “When their thoughts interest me, yes, as one might overhear an interesting conversation.”