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