self-conscious, and the amused glance that the other stole privily at him over the top of the letter burned into him like a dagger-thrust.  He saw the glance, but he gave no sign, for among the things he had learned was discipline.  Also, that dagger-thrust went to his pride.  He cursed himself for having come, and at the same time resolved that, happen what would, having come, he would carry it through.  The lines of his face hardened, and into his eyes came a fighting light.  He looked about more unconcernedly, sharply observant, every detail of the pretty interior registering itself on his brain.  His eyes were wide apart; nothing in their field of vision escaped; and as they drank in the beauty before them the fighting light died out and a warm glow took its place.  He was responsive to beauty, and here was cause to respond.

An oil painting caught and held him.  A heavy surf thundered and burst over an outjutting rock; lowering storm-clouds covered the sky; and, outside the line of surf, a pilot-schooner, close-hauled, heeled over till every detail of her deck was visible, was surging along against a stormy sunset sky.  There was beauty, and it drew him irresistibly.  He forgot his awkward walk and came closer to the painting, very close.  The beauty faded out of the canvas.  His face expressed his bepuzzlement.  He stared at what seemed a careless daub of paint, then stepped away.  Immediately all the beauty flashed back into the canvas.  “A trick picture,” was his thought, as he dismissed it, though in the midst of the multitudinous impressions he was receiving he found time to feel a prod of indignation that so much beauty should be sacrificed to make a trick.  He did not know painting.  He had been brought up on chromos and lithographs that were always definite and sharp, near or far.  He had seen oil paintings, it was true, in the show windows of shops, but the glass of the windows had prevented his eager eyes from approaching too near.

He glanced around at his friend reading the letter and saw the books on the table.  Into his eyes leaped a wistfulness and a yearning as promptly as the yearning leaps into the eyes of a starving man at sight of food.  An impulsive stride, with one lurch to right and left of the shoulders, brought him to the table, where he began affectionately handling the books.  He glanced at the titles and the authors’ names, read fragments of text, caressing the volumes with his eyes and hands, and, once, recognized a book he had read.  For the rest, they were strange books and strange authors.  He chanced upon a volume of Swinburne and began reading steadily, forgetful of where he was, his face glowing.  Twice he closed the book on his forefinger to look at the name of the author.  Swinburne! he would remember that name.  That fellow had eyes, and he had certainly seen color and flashing light.  But who was Swinburne?  Was he dead a hundred years or so, like most of the