for them.  They predicate from their inner souls that the world is ‘cheap and nasty’ and that is what they find it to be.  There is more true romance in a New York tenement than there ever was in a baron’s tower—­braver battles, truer love, nobler sacrifices.  Romance is all about us, but we must have eyes for it.  You are young people, with your lives before you.  Let me give you a little advice.  As you go through life look for the fine things—­not for the despicable.  It won’t make you any richer.  It won’t make you famous.  It won’t better you in a worldly way.  But it will make your lives happier, for by the time you are my age, you’ll love humanity, and look upon the world and call it good.  And you will have found romance enough to satisfy all longings for mediaeval times.”

“But, dear, one cannot imagine some people ever finding anything romantic in life,” said a voice, which, had it been translated into words would have said, “I know you are right, of course, and you will convince me at once, but in my present state of unenlightenment it seems to me that—­” the voice, already low, became lower.  “Now”—­a moment’s hesitation—­“there is—­Peter Stirling.”

“Exactly,” said Mr. Pierce.  “That is a very case in point, and proves just what I’ve been saying.  Peter is like the novelists of whom I’ve been talking.  I don’t suppose we ought to blame him for it.  What can you expect of a son of a mill-foreman, who lives the first sixteen years of his life in a mill-village?  If his hereditary tendencies gave him a chance, such an experience would end it.  If one lives in the country, one may get fine thoughts by contact with Nature.  In great cities one is developed and stimulated by art, music, literature, and contact with clever people.  But a mill-village is one vast expanse of mediocrity and prosaicness, and it would take a bigger nature than Peter’s to recognize the beautiful in such a life.  In truth, he is as limited, as exact, and as unimaginative as the machines of his own village.  Peter has no romance in him; hence he will never find it, nor increase it in this world.  This very case only proves my point; that to meet romance one must have it.  Boccaccio said he did not write novels, but lived them.  Try to imagine Peter living a romance!  He could be concerned in a dozen and never dream it.  They would not interest him even if he did notice them.  And I’ll prove it to you.”  Mr. Pierce raised his voice.  “We are discussing romance, Peter.  Won’t you stop that unsocial tramp of yours long enough to give us your opinion on the subject?”

A moment’s silence followed, and then a singularly clear voice, coming from the forward part of the yacht, replied:  “I never read them, Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Pierce laughed quietly.  “See,” he said, “that fellow never dreams of there being romance outside of novels.  He is so prosaic that he is unconscious of anything bigger than his own little sphere of life.  Peter may obtain what he wants in this world, for his desires will be of the kind to be won by work and money.  But he will never be controlled by a great idea, nor be the hero of a true romance.”