yes, the young man flushed.
"Yes; my father was active in New England politics," he answered simply.
"Did you know him?"

"Very well"--returned the other--"very well." He repeated the two words
with a suggestive emphasis; his eyes--with that curious, baffling,
questioning look--still fixed upon his companion's face.

The red in Aaron King's cheeks deepened.

Looking away, the strange man added, with a softer note in his rough
voice, "I thought I knew you, when I saw you at the depot. Your mother and
I were boy and girl together. There is a little of her face in yours. If
you have as much of her character, you are to be congratulated--and--so
are the rest of us." The last words were spoken, apparently, to the dog;
who, still looking up at him, seemed to express with slow-waving tail, an
understanding of thoughts that were only partly put into words.

There was an impersonality in the man's personalities that made it
impossible for the subject of his observations to take offense.

Aaron King--when it was evident that the man had no thought of
introducing himself--said, with the fine courtesy that seemed always to
find expression in his voice and manner, "May I ask your name, sir?"

The other, without turning his eyes from the dog, answered, "Conrad
Lagrange."

The young man smiled. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lagrange.
Surely, you are not the famous novelist of that name?"

"And _why_, 'surely not'?" retorted the other, again turning his face
quickly toward his companion. "Am I not distinguished enough in
appearance? Do I look like the mob? True, I am a scrawny, humpbacked
crooked-faced, scarecrow of a man--but what matters _that_, if I do not
look like the mob? What is called fame is as scrawny and humpbacked and
crooked-faced as my body--but what matters _that?_ Famous or infamous--to
not look like the mob is the thing."

It is impossible to put in print the peculiar humor of pathetic regret, of
sarcasm born of contempt, of intolerant intellectual pride, that marked
the last sentence, which was addressed to the dog, as though the speaker
turned from his human companion to a more worthy listener.

When Aaron King could find no words to reply, the novelist shot another
question at him, with startling suddenness. "Do you read my books?"

The other began a halting answer to the effect that everybody read Conrad
Lagrange's books. But the distinguished author interrupted; "Don't take
the trouble to lie--ou