I shall ask you to tell me about
them and you will be in a hole."
The young man laughed as he said, with straight-forward frankness, "I have
read only one, Mr. Lagrange."
"Which one?"
"The--ah--why--the one, you know--where the husband of one woman falls in
love with the wife of another who is in love with the husband of some one
else. Pshaw!--what is the title? I mean the one that created such a
furore, you know."
"Yes"--said the man, to his dog--"O yes, Czar--I am the famous Conrad
Lagrange. I observe"--he added, turning to the other, with twinkling
eyes--"I observe, Mr. King, that you really _do_ have a good bit of your
mother's character. That you do not read my books is a recommendation that
I, better than any one, know how to appreciate." The light of humor went
from his face, suddenly, as it had come. Again he turned away; and his
deep voice was gentle as he continued, "Your mother is a rare and
beautiful spirit, sir. Knowing her regard for the true and genuine,--her
love for the pure and beautiful,--I scarcely expected to find her son
interested in the realism of _my_ fiction. I congratulate you, young
man"--he paused; then added with indescribable bitterness--"that you have
not read my books.
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