to read, but worn out by fatigue and excitement.  Though his chaos had not settled into order, it was easy to read his character from his surroundings.  The books were not all divinity.  There were classics of every kind, even to a collection of Eastern literature; a mass of poetry in all languages; not a few novels; and what was most conspicuous, an elaborate collection of illustrated works on art, Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Medieval, Mexican, Japanese, Indian, and whatever else had come in his way.  Add to this a shelf of music, and then—­construct the tall, slender, large-eyed, thin-nosed, dark-haired figure lying exhausted on the sofa.

He rose to greet Strong with a laugh like a boy, and cried:  “Well, skeptic, how do the heathen rage?”

“The heathen are all right,” replied Strong.  “The orthodox are the ragers.”

“Never mind the orthodox,” said Hazard.  “I will look after them.  Tell me about the Pagans.  I felt like St. Paul preaching at Athens the God whom they ignorantly worshiped.”

“I took with me the sternest little Pagan I know, my cousin, Esther Dudley,” said Strong; “and the only question she asked was whether you believed it all.”

“She hit the mark at the first shot,” answered Hazard.  “I must make them all ask that question.  Tell me about your cousin.  Who is she?  Her name sounds familiar.”

“As familiar as Hawthorne,” replied Strong.  “One of his tales is called after it.  Her father comes from a branch of the old Puritan Dudleys, and took a fancy to the name when he met it in Hawthorne’s story.  You never heard of them before because you have been always away from New York, and when you were here they happened to be away.  You know that half a dozen women run this city, and my aunt, Mrs. Murray, is one of the half-dozen.  She is training Esther to take her place when she retires.  I want you to know my Uncle Dudley and my cousin.  I am going to have a little tea-party for them in my rooms, and you must help me with it.”

Mr. Hazard asked only to have it put off until the week after the next because of his engagements, and hardly had they fixed the day when another caller appeared.

He was a man of their own age, so quiet and subdued in manner, and so delicate in feature, that he would have been unnoticed in any ordinary group, and shoved aside into a corner.  He seemed to face life with an effort; his light-brown eyes had an uneasy look as though they wanted to rest on something that should be less hard and real than what they saw.  He was not handsome; his mouth was a little sensual; his yellowish beard was ragged.  He was apt to be silent until his shyness wore off, when he became a rapid, nervous talker, full of theories and schemes, which he changed from one day to another, but which were always quite complete and convincing for the moment.  At times he had long fits of moodiness and would not open his mouth for days.  At other times he sought society and sat up all night talking,