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.”