"Yes, he talks very little," said Piers. "I've known him silent for
two or three days together."

"And what does he do with himself there among the moors? You don't
know Hawes," he remarked to the graciously attentive Mrs. Jacks. "A
little stony town at the wild end of Wensleydale. Delightful for a
few months, but very grim all the rest of the year. Has he any
society there?"

"None outside his home, I think. He sits by the fire and reads
Dante."

"Dante?"

"Yes, Dante; he seems to care for hardly anything else. It has been
so for two or three years. Editions of Dante and books about Dante
crowd his room--they are constantly coming. I asked him once if he
was going to write on the subject, but he shook his head."

"It must be a very engrossing study," remarked Mrs. Jacks, with her
most intelligent air. "Dante opens such a world."

"Strange!" murmured her husband, with his kindly smile. "The last
thing I should have imagined."

They were summoned to luncheon. As they entered the dining-room,
there appeared a young man whom Mr. Jacks greeted warmly.

"Hullo, Arnold! I am so glad you lunch here to-day. Here is the son