“Admirably,” said Ethelbert.
“Do you read Petrarch?”
“Why, really, no, I do not,” said Ethelbert in surprise at herself. “I suppose I have not yet gotten to it.”
“I wondered whether it was your memory of that great author, or whether it were the wonderful reception of profoundest truth which blesses pure souls in all ages, bringing ever to the intelligent worker those few fundamentals which relate to our moral natures. See, I copied this for you, that you might perceive not only that I was wrong in being against you, but that you have Petrarch on your side.”
And he passed her a bit copied from “De Vita Solitaria,” which is substantially as quoted from Ethelbert’s own expression.
“You remember,” said the judge, “you had said it was your own purpose to accumulate wisdom and employ all your acquirements and understanding in just the manner which would best ensure benefit to the people of this now nearly twenty-first century, and would help to solve the especial problems of our conglomerate American society. Petrarch substantially says the same of his efforts for his people in his epoch.”
Reginald was turning over in his mind something which echoed down from babydom. He remembered a little book among his mother’s choice few, with letters on the back. Did he not in childhood spell out the letters there P-E-T-R-A-R-C-H? And what else was it he “knew about the old fellow”? Oh, he had an idea now. He dimly remembered many talks with his mother; but he thought he would let these people talk on with their high themes, while he sat pulling out his mustache and getting a word or two together in such good form as would show this snob whom he was.
“All I have to say then, is,” commenced the little Captain Grove coolly, “Petrarch is rather coming up in reputation when he finds himself able to keep up with the thoughts of Miss Daksha. I knew old Pete; he was one of my mother’s favorites. You know he was mashed on a girl called ‘Laura.’”
A merry peal from Ethelbert quite cleared the atmosphere; but, in the sharp, bright handling of the subject that followed, Reginald felt himself completely stranded again. So he had shrewdness enough to retire on his laurels, and to take his departure at a moment when a pretty little sentiment as to his arrested development along very nice lines of life, had quite taken possession of Mrs. Daksha, as well as of the rest.
He walked direct from this visit to a bookstore and inquired for Petrarch’s works, much to the amazement of the man who had hitherto supplied him with another style of literature. And then in his room in his hotel he recommenced an acquaintance with that author, or his mother, or with the moss rosebud which he had placed at his elbow, in a vase, or with Miss Ethelbert, or with himself. With which, or with how many of these he recommenced an acquaintance that evening, it would have been hard for him to say. But when he arose from the long half-reverie he was in a new frame of mind; and, too, he fancied he had stolen a march on Miss Daksha in regard to at least one book.