Jack sat silent--he had long since found himself out of his depth
--drinking in every word of the talk, his wonderment increasing
every moment, not only over Cohen, but over Peter as well, whom he
had never before heard so eloquent or so learned, or so
entertaining. When at last the little man rose to go, the boy,
with one of those spontaneous impulses which was part of his
nature, sprang from his seat, found the tailor's hat himself, and
conducting him to the door, wished him good-night with all the
grace and well-meant courtesy he would show a prince of the blood,
should he ever be fortunate enough to meet one.
Peter was standing on the mat, his back to the fire, when the boy
returned.
"Jack, you delight me!" the old fellow cried. "Your father
couldn't have played host better. Really, I am beginning to
believe I won't have to lock you up in an asylum. You're getting
wonderfully sane, my boy,--real human. Jack, do you know that if
you keep on this way I shall really begin to love you!"
"But what an extraordinary man," exclaimed Jack, ignoring Peter's
compliment and badinage.
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