Sometimes at first he had gone back at night to the hall bedroom, and sat on the edge of the narrow bed, swinging his feet, and asking himself how long he could hold out.  But he had held out, and evidently developed into a good salesman, being bold and of imperturbable good spirits and temper, and not troubled by hypersensitiveness.  Hearing of the “hall bedroom,” the coldness of it in winter, and the breathless heat in summer, the utter loneliness of it at all times and seasons, one could not have felt surprise if the grown-up lad doomed to its narrowness as home had been drawn into the electric-lighted gaiety of Broadway, and being caught in its maelstrom, had been sucked under to its lowest depths.  But it was to be observed that G. Selden had a clear eye, and a healthy skin, and a healthy young laugh yet, which were all wonderfully to his credit, and added enormously to one’s liking for him.

“Do you use a typewriter?” he said at last to Mr. Penzance.  “It would cut out half your work with your sermons.  If you do use one, I’d just like to call your attention to the Delkoff.  It’s the most up-to-date machine on the market to-day,” drawing out the catalogue.

“I do not use one, and I am extremely sorry to say that I could not afford to buy one,” said Mr. Penzance with considerate courtesy, “but do tell me about it.  I am afraid I never saw a typewriter.”

It was the most hospitable thing he could have done, and was of the tact of courts.  He arranged his pince nez, and taking the catalogue, applied himself to it.  G. Selden’s soul warmed within him.  To be listened to like this.  To be treated as a gentleman by a gentleman—­by “a fine old swell like this—­Hully gee!”

“This isn’t what I’m used to,” he said with genuine enjoyment.  “It doesn’t matter, your not being ready to buy now.  You may be sometime, or you may run up against someone who is.  Little Willie’s always ready to say his piece.”

He poured it forth with glee—­the improved mechanical appliances, the cuts in the catalogue, the platen roller, the ribbon switch, the twenty-six yards of red or blue typing, the fifty per cent. saving in ribbon expenditure alone, the new basket shift, the stationary carriage, the tabulator, the superiority to all other typewriting machines—­the price one hundred dollars without discount.  And both Mount Dunstan and Mr. Penzance listened entranced, examined cuts in the catalogue, asked questions, and in fact ended by finding that they must repress an actual desire to possess the luxury.  The joy their attitude bestowed upon Selden was the thing he would feel gave the finishing touch to the hours which he would recall to the end of his days as the “time of his life.”  Yes, by gee! he was having “the time of his life.”

Later he found himself feeling—­as Miss Vanderpoel had felt—­rather as if the whole thing was a dream.  This came upon him when, with Mount Dunstan and Penzance, he walked through the park and the curiously beautiful old gardens.  The lovely, soundless quiet, broken into only by bird notes, or his companions’ voices, had an extraordinary effect on him.