, Mildred, a
little piqued, a little amused, retorted:

"And what will he answer? Why, simply yes or no."

"That's all," assented Stanley. "And that's quite enough, isn't it?"

"But how do you know he's as wise as he pretends?"

"He doesn't pretend to be anything or to know anything. That's
precisely it."

Mildred suddenly began to like Keith. She had never thought of this
before. Yes, it was true, he did not pretend. Not in the least, not
about anything. When you saw him, you saw at once the worst there was
to see. It was afterward that you discovered he was not slovenly, but
clean and neat, not badly but well dressed, not homely but handsome,
not sickly but soundly well, not physically weak but strong, not dull
but vividly alive, not a tiresome void but an unfathomable mystery.

"What does he do?" she asked Mrs. Brindley.

Cyrilla's usually positive gray eyes looked vague. She smiled. "I
never asked," said she. "I've known him nearly three years, and it
never occurred to me to ask, or to wonder. Isn't that strange? Usually
about the first inquiry we make is what a man does."

"I'll ask Stanley," said Mildred. And she did about an hour later,
when they were in the surf together, with the other two out of earshot.
Said Stanley:

"He's a lawyer, of course. Also, he's written a novel or two and a
book of poems. I've never read them. Somehow, I never get around to
reading."

"Oh, he's a lawyer? That's the way he makes his living."

"A queer kind of lawyer. He never goes to court, and his clients are
almost all other lawyers. They go to him to get him to tell them what
to do, and what not to do. He's got a big reputation among lawyers,
Fred Norman tells me, but makes comparatively little, as he either
can't or won't charge what he ought. I told him what Norman said, and
he only smiled in that queer way he has. I said: 'You make twenty or
thirty thousand a year. You ought to make ten times that.'"

"And what did he answer?" asked Mildred. "Nothing?"

"He said: 'I make all I want. If I took in more, I'd be bothered
getting rid of it or investing it. I can always make all I'll
want--unless I go crazy. And what could a crazy man do with money? It
doesn't cost anything to live in a lunatic asylum.'"

Several items of interest to add to those she had collected. He could
talk brilliantly, but he preferred silence. He could make himself
attractive to women and to men, but he preferred