"You've got the ugly facts by heart"--said Gwent slowly--"But
there's another and more cheerful outlook--if you choose to consider
it. Newspaper reading always gives the worst and dirtiest side of
everything--it wouldn't be newspaper stuff if it was clean.
Newspapers remind me of the rotting heaps in gardens--all the
rubbish piled together till the smell becomes a nuisance--then a
good burning takes place of the whole collection and it makes a sort
of fourth-rate manure." He paused a moment--then went on--

"I'm not given to sentiment, but I dare say there are still a few
folks who love each other in this world,--and it's good to know of
when they do. My sister"--he paused again, as if something stuck in
his throat; "My sister loved her boy,--Jack. His death has driven
her silly for the time--doctors say she will recover--that it's only
'shock.' 'Shock' is answerable for a good many tragedies since the
European war."

Seaton moved impatiently, but said nothing,

"You're a bit on the fidgets"--resumed Gwent, placidly--"You want me
to come to business--and I will. May I smoke?"

His companion nodded, and he drew out his cigar-case, selecting from
it a particularly fragrant Havana.

"You don't do this sort of thing, or I'd offer you one,"--he said,--
"Pity you don't, it soothes the nerves. But I know your 'fads'; you
are too closely acquainted with the human organism to either smoke
or drink. Well--every man to his own method! Now what you want me to
do is this--to represent the force and meaning of a certain