cause he
had suffered too much to inflict the smallest pin-prick of pain upon
any living thing if it could be avoided. "I'm afraid I must ask you not
to rout me out of my burrow with any searchlight. You can see for
yourself I'm no figure for a newspaper paragraph. If the public really
takes the slightest interest in me, for Heaven's sake leave them to
their illusions. Please write nothing about me at all. But I can't let
you go without asking you to rest and drink a glass of lemonade. I'm
ashamed to confess"--and he laughed--"that I've nothing stronger to
offer you. I lead the simple life here!"

As he spoke he came down from the ladder, trying not to show
inhospitable reluctance, and invited the reporter to sit in the shade
of the veranda. Reid, seeing that the man was in earnest, not merely
"playing to the gallery," showed his shrewd journalistic qualities by
acquiescence. He accepted the situation and the lemonade, and kept his
eyes open. He did not abuse the hermit's kindness by outstaying his
welcome, but took leave at the end of fifteen or twenty minutes. At the
gate, he held out his hand and Sanbourne had to shake it with a good
grace. Noticing for future reference, that the author of "The War
Wedding" had a hand as attractive as his scarred face was plain, Reid
said resignedly, "Well, Mr. Sanbourne, thank you for entertaining me.
But I'm sorry you don't want me to write about you. Sure you won't
change your mind?"

"Sure," echoed Sanbourne, and went thankfully back to put the last
touches on the house-wall. About half an hour later the work was
finished, and he had time to remember that several letters and papers,
brought by the postman, were lying unopened. Standing on his ladder, he
had asked to have the budget left on the balcony table. Then he had
forgotten it, for he dreaded rather than looked forward to the letters
of his unknown correspondents; and even if Barbara acknowledged his
answer (which seemed to him unlikely) it would be many days before he
could expect to hear from her.

This time there was the usual fat envelope, stuffed with smaller ones,
forwarded by Eversedge Sibley; also there was a letter from Sibley
himself. Denin put off delving into the big envelope, and opened
Sibley's. Quite a friendship had developed between them, and he liked
hearing from the publisher, who wrote about the great events of the
world or advised the reading of certain new books, which he generally
sent in a separa