nterminable story of how Isabel had
all but asphyxiated herself the night before, a servant announced
Landry Court, and the young man entered, spruce and debonair, a bouquet
in one hand and a box of candy in the other.

Some days before this Page had lectured him solemnly on the fact that
he was over-absorbed in business, and was starving his soul. He should
read more, she told him, and she had said that if he would call upon
her on this particular night, she would indicate a course of reading
for him.

So it came about that, after a few moments, conversation with the older
people in the drawing-room, the two adjourned to the library.

There, by way of a beginning, Page asked him what was his favourite
character in fiction. She spoke of the beauty of Ruskin's thoughts, of
the gracefulness of Charles Lamb's style. The conversation lagged a
little. Landry, not to be behind her, declared for the modern novel,
and spoke of the "newest book." But Page never read new books; she was
not interested, and their talk, unable to establish itself upon a
common ground, halted, and was in a fair way to end, until at last, and
by insensible degrees, they began to speak of themselves and of each
other. Promptly they were all aroused. They listened to one another's
words with studious attention, answered with ever-ready promptness,
discussed, argued, agreed, and disagreed over and over again.

Landry had said:

"When I was a boy, I always had an ambition to excel all the other
boys. I wanted to be the best baseball player on the block--and I was,
too. I could pitch three curves when I was fifteen, and I find I am the
same now that I am a man grown. When I do a thing, I want to do it
better than any one else. From the very first I have always been
ambitious. It is my strongest trait. Now," he went on, turning to Page,
"your strongest trait is your thoughtfulness. You are what they call
introspective."

"Yes, yes," she answered. "Yes, I think so, too."

"You don't need the stimulation of competition. You are at your best
when you are with just one person. A crowd doesn't interest you."

"I hate it," she exclaimed.

"Now with me, with a man of my temperament, a crowd is a real
inspiration. When every one is talking and shouting around me, or to
me, even, my mind works at its best. But," he added, solemnly, "it must
be a crowd of men. I can't abide a crowd of women."

"They chatter so," she assented. "I can't either."

"But I f