"Yes, and perhaps more than you do."
"You are very peculiar. It is a pity you came out. You are ill."
"Do I seem strange?"
"Yes; what are you reading?"
"The paper."
"There are a number of fires."
"I am not reading about them." He looked curiously at Zametoff, and a malicious smile distorted his lips. "No, fires are not in my line," he added, winking at Zametoff. "Now, I should like to know, sweet youth, what it signifies to you what I read?"
"Nothing at all. I only asked. Perhaps I——"
"Listen. You are a cultivated man—a literary man, are you not?"
"I was in the sixth class at college," Zametoff answered, with a certain amount of dignity.