Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. By and by he ventured to peer into this window. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. And behind— there was Paris, memories of amazing things, memories which made his cheeks burn and his heart beat quickly as he sat there waiting for her. "What for?" rejoined Quilt, evasively. I am certainly no ghost. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. I wonder,” he added, after a moment’s pause, “whether you ever realize how young you are.
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