A half-hearted smile crossed the visible portion of the hermit's face.
"I guess I'm about the poorest liar in the world," he said. "I never got away with but one lie in my life, and that was only for a little while. It was a masterpiece while it lasted, too. But it was my only hit as a liar. Usually I fail, as I have failed now. I lied when I said I couldn't cook for you because I had to be true to my hermit's oath. That isn't the reason. I'm afraid."
"Afraid?" echoed Mr. Magee.
"Scared," said Mr. Peters, "of temptation. Your seventh son of a seventh son friend here has read my palm O. K. I want to go back. Not in the summer, when the inn blazes like Broadway every evening, and I can sit here and listen to the latest comic opera tunes come drifting up from the casino, and go down and mingle with the muslin brigade any time I want, and see the sympathetic look in their eyes as they buy my postals. It ain't then I want to go back. It's when fall comes, and the trees on the mountain are bare, and Quimby locks up the inn, and there's only the wind and me on the mountain—then I get the fever. I haven't the post-card trade to think of—so I think of Ellen, and New York. She's—my wife. New York—it's my town.
"That's why I can't come among you to cook. It'd be leading me into temptation greater than I could stand. I'd hear your talk, and like as not when you went away I'd shave off this beard, and burn the manuscript of Woman, and go down into the marts of trade. Last night I walked the floor till two. I can't stand such temptation."
Mr. Peters' auditors regarded him in silence. He rose and moved toward the kitchen door.
"Now you understand how it is," he said. "Perhaps you will go and leave me to my baking."
"One minute," objected Mr. Magee. "You spoke of one lie—your masterpiece. We must hear about that."
"Yes—spin the yarn, pal," requested Mr. Max.
"Well," said the hermit reluctantly, "if you're quite comfortable—it ain't very short."