"Walk on with me," he said. "What I like is the deserted look of things, and the silence. There is nothing more silent and deserted than such a street as this at night. There is a quiet and emptiness about it which impress themselves on you more than the stillness of a desert. Perhaps it is the sleep around you in the houses,--the people who have lost their hold on the world and life for the time being. They are far enough away by this time, most of them, and we are no more certain where they are than we shall be after they have lain down for the last time. How did you find Bertha?" His voice changed as he asked the question, dropping its key somewhat; and, quiet though its tone was, Tredennis thought he recognized a faint suggestion of consciousness in it. "She looked very well," he answered; "and was very bright." "She is generally that," said the professor. "Who was there?" "A Mr. Arbuthnot." "Arbuthnot! Yes; to be sure. He generally is there. He is a relative of Richard's. They are fond of him. I was to have been there myself, but I had a previous engagement. And I suppose they made light of each other, as usual?" "You mean"--began Tredennis. "Arbuthnot and Bertha. They always do it, and Richard looks on and enjoys it. He is a queer fellow." "Mr. Amory?" Tredennis questioned, uncertainly. "No, no; Arbuthnot. He is a queer fellow, Arbuthnot." Tredennis laughed. "That is what they said in the house," he responded. "Well, it's true," said the professor, reflectively, "and there is no denying it." "They said that, too," said Tredennis. "And Mrs. Amory added that it was a habit they had." "I don't know," said the professor, still keeping his hand on Tredennis' shoulder, and seeming to study the pavement as he walked,--"I don't know what the man has done with his past, and I don't know what he is going to do with his future. I don't think he knows about the future himself." "It struck me," said Tredennis,--"I don't know why,--that he did not care." "That's it," said the professor. "He doesn't care." They walked a few steps in silence, and then he went on: "He never will care," he said, "unless something happens to rouse him." "I am obliged to confess," said Tredennis, "that I am afraid I am prepared to underrate him. And it seemed to me that there wasn't much in him to rouse." "Oh, you'll underrate him," returned the professor, "at first. And you may never get over it; but there are also ten chances to one that you do. I did." "You began by underrating him?" "I don't overrate him now," said the professor. "I don't know that I am particularly fond of him, though there have been moments--just moments--when I have been threatened with it. But I have come to the conclusion that there is something in him to rouse, and that it wouldn't be the wisest thing in the world to rouse it." "Do you mean," said Tredennis, slowly, "that it would take a woman to rouse it?"