d for it, and he stood up.

The young lord had fair, straight, thin features, with large restless
eyes that lighted quickly, and a mouth that was winning in his present
colloquial mood.

'You could have done the same? I should find it hard to forgive the man
who pried into my secret thoughts,' he remarked.

'There they are. If one puts them to paper! . . .' Woodseer shrugged.

'Yes, yes. They never last long enough with me. So far I'm safe. One page
led to another. You can meditate. I noticed some remarks on Religions.
You think deeply.'

Woodseer was of that opinion, but modesty urged him to reply with a small
flourish. 'Just a few heads of ideas. When the wind puffs down a sooty
chimney the air is filled with little blacks that settle pretty much like
the notes in this book of mine. There they wait for another puff, or my
fingers to stamp them.'

'I could tell you were the owner of that book,' said Lord Fleetwood. He
swept his forehead feverishly. 'What a power it is to relieve one's brain
by writing! May I ask you, which one of the Universities . . . ?'

The burden of this question had a ring of irony to one whom it taught to
feel rather defiantly, that he carried the blazon of a reeking tramp. 'My
University,' Woodseer replied, 'was a merchant's office in Bremen for
some months. I learnt more Greek and Latin in Bremen than business. I was
invalided home, and then tried a merchant's office in London. I put on my
hat one day, and walked into the country. My College fellows were
hawkers, tinkers, tramps and ploughmen, choughs and crows. A volume of
our Poets and a History of Philosophy composed my library. I had scarce
any money, so I learnt how to idle inexpensively--a good first lesson.
We're at the bottom of the world when we take to the road; we see men as
they were in the beginning--not so eager for harness till they get
acquainted with hunger, as I did, and studied in myself the old animal
having his head pushed into the collar to earn a feed of corn.'

Woodseer laughed, adding, that he had been of a serious mind in those
days of the alternation of smooth indifference and sharp necessity, and
he had plucked a flower from them.

His nature prompted him to speak of himself with simple candour, as he
had done spontaneously to Chillon Kirby, yet he was now anxious to let
his companion know at once the common stuff he was made of, together with
the great stuff he contained. He grew conscious of an over-anxiet