That's the only way not to think of it." "Oh you young men, you young men!" his guest again murmured.

He had passed on to the photograph--Vanderbank had many, too many photographs--of some other relation, and stood wiping the gold-mounted glasses through which he had been darting admirations and catching side-lights for shocks.

"Don't talk nonsense," he continued as his friend attempted once more to throw in a protest; "I belong to a different period of history.

There have been things this evening that have made me feel as if I had been disinterred--literally dug up from a long sleep.

I assure you there have!"-- he really pressed the point.
Vanderbank wondered a moment what things in particular these might be; he found himself wanting to get at everything his visitor represented, to enter into his consciousness and feel, as it were, on his side.