The Eyes of the World | Page 9

head and neck, affectionately.
A whiff of pipe smoke drifted over his shoulder, and he looked around.
The dog's master stood just behind him; regarding him with that
quizzing, half pathetic, half humorous, and altogether cynical
expression.
The young man who had been so unresponsive to the advances of his
fellow passengers, for some reason--unknown, probably, to
himself--now took the initiative. "You have a fine dog here, sir," he
said encouragingly.
Without replying, the other turned away and in another moment
returned with a chair; whereupon the dog, with slightly waving,
feathery tail, transferred his attention to his master.

Caressing the seal-brown head with a gentle hand, and apparently
speaking to the soft eyes that looked up at him so understandingly, the
man said, "If the human race was fit to associate with such dogs, the
world would be a more comfortable place to live in." The deep voice
that rumbled up from some unguessed depths of that sunken chest was
remarkable in its suggestion of a virile power that the general
appearance of the man seemed to deny. Facing his companion suddenly,
he asked with a direct bluntness, "Are you not Aaron King--son of the
Aaron King of New England political fame?"
Under the searching gaze of those green-gray eyes, the young man
flushed. "Yes; my father was active in New England politics," he
answered simply. "Did you know him?"
"Very well"--returned the other--"very well." He repeated the two
words with a suggestive emphasis; his eyes--with that curious, baffling,
questioning look--still fixed upon his companion's face.
The red in Aaron King's cheeks deepened.
Looking away, the strange man added, with a softer note in his rough
voice, "I thought I knew you, when I saw you at the depot. Your
mother and I were boy and girl together. There is a little of her face in
yours. If you have as much of her character, you are to be
congratulated--and--so are the rest of us." The last words were spoken,
apparently, to the dog; who, still looking up at him, seemed to express
with slow-waving tail, an understanding of thoughts that were only
partly put into words.
There was an impersonality in the man's personalities that made it
impossible for the subject of his observations to take offense.
Aaron King--when it was evident that the man had no thought of
introducing himself--said, with the fine courtesy that seemed always to
find expression in his voice and manner, "May I ask your name, sir?"
The other, without turning his eyes from the dog, answered, "Conrad
Lagrange."

The young man smiled. "I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Lagrange.
Surely, you are not the famous novelist of that name?"
"And why, 'surely not'?" retorted the other, again turning his face
quickly toward his companion. "Am I not distinguished enough in
appearance? Do I look like the mob? True, I am a scrawny,
humpbacked crooked-faced, scarecrow of a man--but what matters that,
if I do not look like the mob? What is called fame is as scrawny and
humpbacked and crooked-faced as my body--but what matters _that?_
Famous or infamous--to not look like the mob is the thing."
It is impossible to put in print the peculiar humor of pathetic regret, of
sarcasm born of contempt, of intolerant intellectual pride, that marked
the last sentence, which was addressed to the dog, as though the
speaker turned from his human companion to a more worthy listener.
When Aaron King could find no words to reply, the novelist shot
another question at him, with startling suddenness. "Do you read my
books?"
The other began a halting answer to the effect that everybody read
Conrad Lagrange's books. But the distinguished author interrupted;
"Don't take the trouble to lie--out of politeness. I shall ask you to tell
me about them and you will be in a hole."
The young man laughed as he said, with straight-forward frankness, "I
have read only one, Mr. Lagrange."
"Which one?"
"The--ah--why--the one, you know--where the husband of one woman
falls in love with the wife of another who is in love with the husband of
some one else. Pshaw!--what is the title? I mean the one that created
such a furore, you know."
"Yes"--said the man, to his dog--"O yes, Czar--I am the famous Conrad
Lagrange. I observe"--he added, turning to the other, with twinkling
eyes--"I observe, Mr. King, that you really do have a good bit of your

mother's character. That you do not read my books is a
recommendation that I, better than any one, know how to appreciate."
The light of humor went from his face, suddenly, as it had come. Again
he turned away; and his deep voice was gentle as he continued, "Your
mother is a rare and beautiful spirit, sir. Knowing her regard for the true