ast people really see visions in it."

The Master smiled.

"Mr. Davison has a poor opinion of ladies' intelligence, I'm afraid. He
thinks they are children, who will believe any fairy tale."

Davison had drawn near to Mildred as the Master spoke; his eyes met hers
and the impassive face wore a faint, ironical smile.

"The Wisdom of the West speaks!" he exclaimed, in a low voice. "I'd
almost forgotten the sound of it."

Then scrutinizing her pale face: "I'm afraid you've had a scare. What
did you see?"

"I saw--well, I fancy I saw the Gallery at Hammerton House and my
ancestress, Lady Hammerton. It was burned, you know, and she was burned
with it, trying to save her collections. I expect she condescended to
give me a glimpse of them because I've inherited her mania. I'd be a
collector, too, if I had the money."

She laughed nervously.

"You should take Ian to the East," returned Davison. "You could make
money there and learn things--the Wisdom of the East, for instance."

Mildred, recovering her equanimity, smiled at him.

"No, never! The Wisdom of the West engrosses us; but you'll come and
tell us about the other, won't you?"

CHAPTER XV

Maxwell Davison settled in Oxford for six months, in order to see his
great book on Persian Literature through the press. His advent had been
looked forward to as promising a welcome variety, bringing a splash of
vivid color into a somewhat quiet-hued, monotonous world. But there was
doomed to be some disappointment. Mr. Davison went rather freely to
College dinners but seldom into general society. It came to be
understood that he disliked meeting women; Mrs. Stewart, however, he
appeared to except from his condemnation or rule. Ian was his cousin,
which made a pretext at first for going to the Stewarts' house; but he
went because he found the couple interesting in their respective ways.
Some Dons, unable to believe that a man without a University education
could teach them anything, would lecture him out of their little
pocketful of knowledge about Oriental life and literature. Ian, on the
contrary, was an admirable producer of all that was interesting in
others; and in Davison that all was much. At first he had tried to keep
Mrs. Stewart in what he conceived to be her proper place; but as time
went on he found himself dropping in at the old house with surprising
frequency, and often when he knew Ian to be in College or too busy to
attend to him.

He had broug