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“Nothing。”repliedCarthew。“Itcouldn’tbeexplained。TheywereacrowdofsmalldealersatLloyd’swhotookitupinsyndicate；oneofthemhasacarriagenow；andpeoplesayheisadeuceofadeepfellow，andhasthemakingsofagreatfinancier。Anotherfurnishedasmallvillaontheprofits。Butthey’reallhopelesslymuddled；andwhentheymeeteachother，theydon’tknowwheretolook，liketheAugurs。”
DinnerwasnosooneratanendthanhecarriedmeacrosstheroadtoMasson’soldstudio。Itwasstrangelychanged。Onthewallsweretapestry，afewgoodetchings，andsomeamazingpictures——aRousseau，aCorot，areallysuperboldCrome，aWhistler，andapiecewhichmyhostclaimed(andIbelieve)tobeaTitian。TheroomwasfurnishedwithcomfortableEnglishsmoking-roomchairs，someAmericanrockers，andanelaboratebusinesstable；spiritsandsoda-water(withthemarkofSchweppe，noless)stoodreadyonabutler’stray，andinonecorner，behindahalf-drawncurtain，Ispiedacamp-bedandacapacioustub。SucharoominBarbizonastonishedthebeholder，likethegloriesofthecaveofMonteCristo。
“Now。”saidhe，“wearequiet。Sitdown，ifyoudon’tmind，andtellmeyourstoryallthrough。”
Ididasheasked，beginningwiththedaywhenJimshowedmethepassageinthe_DailyOccidental_，andwindingupwiththestampalbumandtheChaillypostmark。Itwasalongbusiness；
andCarthewmadeitlonger，forhewasinsatiableofdetails；
andithadstruckmidnightontheoldeight-dayclockinthecorner，beforeIhadmadeanend。
“Andnow。”saidhe，“turnabout：Imusttellyoumyside，muchasIhateit。Mineisabeastlystory。You’llwonderhowIcansleep。I’vetolditoncebefore，Mr。Dodd。”
“ToLadyAnn？”Iasked。
“Asyousuppose。”heanswered；“andtosaythetruth，Ihadswornnevertotellitagain。Only，youseemsomehowentitledtothething；youhavepaiddearenough，Godknows；andGodknowsIhopeyoumaylikeit，nowyou’vegotit！”
Withthathebeganhisyarn。Anewdayhaddawned，thecockscrewinthevillageandtheearlywoodmenwereafoot，whenheconcluded。
SingletonCarthew，thefatherofNorris，washeavilybuiltandfeeblyvitalised，sensitiveasamusician，dullasasheep，andconscientiousasadog。Hetookhispositionwithseriousness，evenwithpomp；thelongrooms，thesilentservants，seemedinhiseyesliketheobservancesofsomereligionofwhichhewasthemortalgod。Hehadthestupidman’sintoleranceofstupidityinothers；thevainman’sexquisitealarmlestitshouldbedetectedinhimself。AndonbothsidesNorrisirritatedandoffendedhim。Hethoughthissonafool，andhesuspectedthathissonreturnedthecomplimentwithinterest。Thehistoryoftheirrelationwassimple；theymetseldom，theyquarrelledoften。Tohismother，afiery，pungent，practicalwoman，alreadydisappointedinherhusbandandherelderson，Norriswasonlyafreshdisappointment。
Yetthelad’sfaultswerenogreatmatter；hewasdiffident，placable，passive，unambitious，unenterprising；lifedidnotmuchattracthim；hewatcheditlikeacuriousanddullexhibition，notmuchamused，andnottemptedintheleasttotakeapart。Hebeheldhisfatherponderouslygrindingsand，hismotherfierilybreakingbutterflies，hisbrotherlabouringatthepleasuresoftheHawbuckwiththeardourofasoldierinadoubtfulbattle；andthevitalscepticlookedonwondering。
Theywerecarefulandtroubledaboutmanythings；forhimthereseemednotevenonethingneedful。Hewasborndisenchanted，theworld’spromisesawokenoechoinhisbosom，theworld’sactivitiesandtheworld’sdistinctionsseemedtohimequallywithoutabaseinfact。Helikedtheopenair；helikedcomradeship，itmatterednotwithwhom，hiscomradeswereonlyaremedyforsolitude。Andhehadatasteforpaintedart。Anarrayoffinepictureslookeduponhischildhood，andfromtheseroodsofjewelledcanvashereceivedanindelibleimpression。ThegalleryatStallbridgebetokenedgenerationsofpicturelovers；Norriswasperhapsthefirstofhisracetoholdthepencil。Thetastewasgenuine，itgrewandstrengthenedwithhisgrowth；andyethesufferedittobesuppressedwithscarceastruggle。TimecameforhimtogotoOxford，andheresistedfaintly。Hewasstupid，hesaid；itwasnogoodtoputhimthroughthemill；hewishedtobeapainter。
Thewordsfellonhisfatherlikeathunderbolt，andNorrismadehastetogiveway。“Itdidn’treallymatter，don’
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