“I think it’s the most interesting subject there can be. Real life, that is, though—not just on the surface. Now, for instance, you take the case of a man that’s in——” “Do you go in much for reading?” she asked. “Sure. But as I was saying, you take——” “I think reading gives us so many ideas, don’t you?” “Yes. I get a lot out of it. I——” “I do, too. I try to read only the best things,” she said. “I don’t believe in reading everything, and there’s so much to read nowadays that isn’t really good.” “Who do you think,” he inquired with deference, “is the best author now?” It was not a question to be settled quite offhand; she delayed her answer slightly, then, with a gravity appropriate to the literary occasion, temporized: “Well, since Victor Hugo is dead, it’s hard to say just who is the best.” “Yes, it is,” he agreed. “We get that in the English course in college. There aren’t any great authors any more. I expect probably Swinburne’s the best.” She hesitated. “Perhaps; but more as a poet.” He assented. “Yes, that’s so. I expect he would be classed more as a poet. Come to think of it, I believe he’s dead, too. I’m not sure, though; maybe it was Beerbohm Tree—somebody like that. I’ve forgotten; but, anyway, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean poetry; I meant who do you think writes the best books? Mrs. Humphry Ward?” “Yes, she’s good, and so’s Henry James.” “I’ve never read anything by Henry James. I guess I’ll read some of his this summer. What’s the best one to begin on?” The exquisite pink of her cheeks extended its area almost imperceptibly. “Oh, any one. They’re all pretty good. Do you care for Nature?” “Sure thing,” he returned quickly. “Do you?” “I love it!” “So do I. I can’t do much for mathematics, though.” “Br-r!” She shivered prettily. “I hate it!” “So do I. I can’t give astronomy a whole lot, either.” She turned a softly reproachful inquiry upon him. “Oh, don’t you love to look at the stars?” In horror lest the entrancing being think him a brute, he responded with breathless haste: “Oh, rath-er-r! To look at ’em, sure thing! I meant astronomy in college; that’s mostly math, you know—just figures. But stars to look at—of course that’s different. Why, I look up at ’em for hours sometimes!” He believed what he was saying. “I look up at ’em, and think and think and think——” “So do I.” Her voice was low and hushed; there was something almost holy in the sound of it, and a delicate glow suffused her lovely, upraised face—like that picture of Saint Cecilia, he thought. “Oh, I love the stars! And music—and flowers——” “And birds,” he added automatically in a tone that, could it by some miracle have been heard at home, would have laid his nine-year-old brother flat on the floor in a might-be mortal swoon.