Peter had but one object, for the moment, and that was to captivate the mind of his host, a feat which his experience and ready Irish wit made easy of accomplishment. He told some stories which brought tears of laughter to Walter Lord's little, twinkling eyes, and made him rock backward and forward in his chair. In order to invite the old man's confidence, Peter told some of his early experiences. Truthful stories they were, in the main, only slightly embellished, and most effective in their skilful blending of humour and pathos--but in them was no hint of Peter's present profession. By the time supper was finished, Peter had achieved a footing of such friendly intimacy that he was allowed to help clear away. And all the while he had been studying the little old man, whose quaint appearance would have been simply ridiculous to one less sympathetic than Peter Clancy. To him, the dyed hair and the jauntily worn old-fashioned clothes spoke aloud of a spirit of undying youthfulness and simplicity, a heart kept young by the love of all things beautiful, a mind so filled with imagination and artistic longings that it had selected a thing as impractical as photography for its profession. Peter thought of the little, sleepy village and the emptiness of the wooded hills, and could imagine how few were the sitters who came to Walter Lord's old photographic studio. And he wondered, in that remote spot, what incentive kept the light gray trousers so carefully creased, the linen vest so stiffly starched, the old, worn broadcloth coat so immaculately brushed. "He must be like 'St. Ives'," Peter concluded, at last. "Since there's no one else to dress for, he 'dresses for God.'" They had left things tidy in the kitchen, and now, at ease in their pleasant relationship of host and welcome guest, they sat beside the open west window, smoking limitless cigarettes and talking endlessly. Peter, looking always for an opening for the introduction of the subject which was uppermost in his mind, carefully guided the old man into speaking further of himself and his pursuits, a matter presenting no difficulties whatever, for Walter Lord had many hobbies and rode them with an enthusiasm which age could not abate. He learned, among other things, that the Lords had once been well off, but that the family estate had dwindled before Walter and his older brother, Tom, came into possession, and that after Tom had died and left his elderly widow and the remainder of the property to Walter's care, it had suffered still more. "I did the best I could," said the old man, wistfully, "but there it was--I always felt that I could have made more money if I could have gone to New York--but Miranda--and the old house--they seemed sort of to anchor me."