"'Out of the dark which covers me,
Black as a pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods there be,
For my unconquerable soul—'
"That poem and Theocrite, and only two lines of Theocrite, are the beginning and the end of my poetical leanings. I attend lectures of course. Lectures on English, on architecture, music, history—especially history—oh, a hundred subjects. And mathematics. You can get those in the extension classes only, unfortunately, I cannot qualify for admission to the classes themselves."
"Have you never tried to—to—"
"Read and write? Yes. My room is packed with little books and big books. A-b, ab; c-a-t, cat; and copy books. But I just can't. I can write the letters of the alphabet, a few of them that are necessary for mathematical calculations, very well; but I cannot go any further. I seem to slip into a fog, a sort of impenetrable wall of thick mist that confuses and baffles me. I know that c-a-t is 'cat' but when I see 'cat' written it is a meaningless combination of straight and curved lines. It is sheerly physical—the doctors have a word for it—I cannot remember what it is for the moment, I just can't read—"
Dr. Merville came in at that moment, a thin colorless man, myopic, irritable, chronically worried. He entered the drawing-room hurriedly. Beryl thought he must have run upstairs. His frowning, dissatisfied glance was toward Sault; the girl he ignored.
"Hello, Sault—had no idea you were here. Will you come into my study?" He was breathless and Beryl knew by the signs that he was angry about something. It occurred to her instantly, that he was annoyed with her for entertaining the untidy visitor. The study was next door to the drawing-room and he walked out with a beckoning jerk of his chin.
"I am glad to have met you, mademoiselle." Ambrose Sault was not to be hurried. Returning to the open doorway, Dr. Merville, clucking his impatience, witnessed the leisurely leave-taking.
The study door had scarcely closed on the visitor before it opened again and her father returned. "Why the deuce did you ask that fellow up, Beryl? He could have very well waited in the servants' hall—or in the breakfast room or anywhere. Suppose—somebody had called!"
"I thought he was a friend of Mr. Steppe's," she said calmly. "You know such extraordinary people. What is he?"
"Who, Sault? Well, he is—"