They are singularly modest men as a rule, and are by no means those about whom there is the most talk in the world.
The party sat in their places when supper was over, with cloaks and coats thrown over them against the night air, while Kalmon talked of all sorts of things that seemed to have the least possible connection with each other, but which somehow came up quite naturally.

He went from the last book on Dante to a new discovery in chemistry, thence to Japanese monks and their beliefs, and came back smiling to the latest development of politics, which led him quite naturally to the newest play, labour and capital, the German Emperor, and the immortality of the soul.
"I believe you know everything!" exclaimed Marcello, with an admiring look.

"Or else I know nothing, which is really more probable!" The boy laughed.
"You have not told us about the new form of death yet," said Aurora, leaning on her elbows and burying her young hands in her auburn hair as she looked across the table at Kalmon.
"You will never sleep again if I tell you about it," answered the Professor, opening his brown eyes very wide and trying to look terrible, which was quite impossible, because he had such a kindly face.

"You do not look frightened at all," he added, pretending to be disappointed.
"Let me see the thing," Aurora said.

"Perhaps we shall all be frightened." "It looks very innocent," Kalmon answered.