You
remember his library--made up entirely of Scott?"
"Oh, that wasn't the reason. He interested me; or at least his way of
living did."
"I wonder if he wasn't fabricating a little. These old fellows from the
country like to make themselves amusing. They're not so guileless."
"I know that, but Mr. Bud is genuine. Since that day, he's been home in
the country for three weeks, and now he's back in town again for a 'short
spell,' as he calls it."
"You still keep in touch with him?" asked Larcher, in surprise.
"Oh, yes. He's been very hospitable--allowing me the use of his room to
sketch in."
"Even during his absence?"
"Yes; why not? I made some drawings for him, of the view from his window.
He's proud of them."
Something in Davenport's manner seemed to betray a wish for reticence on
the subject of Mr. Bud, even a regret that it had been broached. This
stopped Larcher's inquisition, though not his curiosity. He was silent
for a moment; then rose, with the words:
"Well, I'm keeping you up. Many thanks for the sight of your moonlit
garden. When shall I see you again?"
"Oh, run in any time. It isn't so far out of your way, even if you don't
find me here."
"I'd like you to glance over the proofs of my Harlem Lane article. I
shall have them day after to-morrow. Let's see--I'm engaged for that day.
How will the next day suit you?"
"All right. Come the next day if you like."
"That'll be Friday. Say one o'clock, and we can go out and lunch
together.
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