dge of some French or Italian poet scarce known by
name to ordinary educated people; something in him had appealed to her
mind at a certain time, and her memory held him in gratitude. The other
would be found to have informed herself exhaustively concerning the
history of some neglected people, dear to her for some subtle reason of
affinity or association. But in their table-talk appeared no pedantry;
things merely human were as interesting to them as to the babbler of
any drawing-room, and their inexhaustible kindliness sweetened every
word they spoke.

Nothing more salutary for Irene Derwent than this sojourn with persons
whom she in every way respected--with whom there was not the least
temptation to exhibit her mere dexterities. In London, during this past
season, she had sometimes talked as a young, clever and admired girl is
prone to do; always to the mockery of her sager self when looking back
on such easy triumphs. How very easy it was to shine in London
drawing-rooms, no one knew better. Here, in the country stillness, in
this beautiful old house sacred to sincerity of heart and mind, to aim
at "smartness" would indeed have been to condemn oneself. Instead of
phrasing, she was content, as became her years, to listen; she enjoyed
the feeling of natural youthfulness, of spontaneity without misgiving.
The things of life and intellect appeared in their true proportions;
she saw the virtue of repose.

When she had been here a day or two, the conversation chanced to take a
turn which led to her showing the autograph of Trafford Romaine; she
said merely that a friend had given it to her.

"An interesting man, I should think," remarked the elder of the two
sisters, without emphasis.

"An Englishman of a new type, wouldn't you say?" fell from the other.

"So far as I understand him. Or perhaps of an old type under new
conditions."

Irene, paying close attention, was not sure that she understood all
that these words implied.

"He is immensely admired by some of our friends," she said with
restraint. "They compare him to the fighting heroes of our history."

"Indeed?" rejoined the elder lady. "But the question is: Are those the
qualities that we want nowadays? I admire Sir Walter Raleigh, but I
should be sorry to see him, just as he was, playing an active part in
our time."

"They say," ventured Irene, with a smile, "that but for such men, we
may really become a mere nation of shopkeepers."

"Do they? But may