like a snake. The whole watch was tryin' to grab it, an' I rushed in an' got swatted."
"Oh," she said, this time with an accent of comprehension, though secretly his speech had been so much Greek to her and she was wondering what a lift was and what swatted meant.
"This man Swineburne," he began, attempting to put his plan into execution and pronouncing the i long.
"Who?"
"Swineburne," he repeated, with the same mispronunciation. "The poet."
"Swinburne," she corrected.
"Yes, that's the chap," he stammered, his cheeks hot again. "How long since he died?"
"Why, I haven't heard that he was dead." She looked at him curiously. "Where did you make his acquaintance?"
"I never clapped eyes on him," was the reply. "But I read some of his poetry out of that book there on the table just before you come in. How do you like his poetry?"
And thereat she began to talk quickly and easily upon the subject he had suggested. He felt better, and settled back slightly from the edge of the chair, holding tightly to its arms with his hands, as if it might get away from him and buck him to the floor. He had succeeded in making her talk her talk, and while she rattled on, he strove to follow her, marvelling at all the knowledge that was stowed away in that pretty head of hers, and drinking in the pale beauty of her face. Follow her he did, though bothered by unfamiliar words that fell glibly from her lips and by critical phrases and thought-processes that were foreign to his mind, but that nevertheless stimulated his mind and set it tingling. Here was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for—ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women
