"Why this, you know," he exclaimed, "is simply immense!"

The words, which did not immediately present themselves as slang to Miss
Anson's unaccustomed ear, echoed with an odd familiarity through the
academic silence.

"The room, you know, I mean," he explained with a comprehensive gesture.
"These jolly portraits, and the books--that's the old gentleman himself
over the mantelpiece, I suppose?--and the elms outside, and--and the whole
business. I do like a congruous background--don't you?"

His hostess was silent. No one but Hewlett Winsloe had ever spoken of her
grandfather as "the old gentleman."

"It's a hundred times better than I could have hoped," her visitor
continued, with a cheerful disregard of her silence. "The seclusion, the
remoteness, the philosophic atmosphere--there's so little of that kind
of flavor left! I should have simply hated to find that he lived over
a grocery, you know.--I had the deuce of a time finding out where he
_did_ live," he began again, after another glance of parenthetical
enjoyment. "But finally I got on the trail through some old book on Brook
Farm. I was bound I'd get the environment right before I did my article."

Miss Anson, by this time, had recovered sufficient self-possession to seat
herself and assign a chair to her visitor.

"Do I understand," she asked slowly, following his rapid eye about the
room, "that you intend to write an article about my grandfather?"