"Clairville! That is your name, the name of the young lady, the name of this place?"
"Of this house. Also the estate. This house is, or should be, the Manoir of the Clairvilles, of the De Clairvilles. You are some kind of clergyman?"
"I am. I am a Methodist."
"Have you read much?"
Ringfield, looking around somewhat whimsically at so many books, on a pile of which he was obliged to sit, felt unusual ignorance. He was probably in the presence of some famous scholar.
"Not much. Not anything like what you must have read if you have even gone through a quarter of all these!"
"Ah!"
The strange man, savant, scientist, bibliophile, whatever he was, drew his dirty dressing-gown around him with another flourish of complacent self-admiration.
"I am—you are quite right, Mr. Clergyman—a great reader. I have read every book in this room two, three, many times over. You were—surprised—to see all this book, all this document, all this pamphlette—here, at this place, eh?"
Ringfield, as yet only partly guessing at the peculiarities of his host, assented politely.