"He lives by his wits--and lives well."
Claiborne dismissed Chauvenet and turned again toward the strange young
man, who was still deep in his newspaper.
"He's reading the _Neue Freie Presse_," remarked Dick, "by which token I
argue that he's some sort of a Dutchman. He's probably a traveling agent
for a Vienna glass-factory, or a drummer for a cheap wine-house, or the
agent for a Munich brewery. That would account for his travels. We simply
fall in with his commercial itinerary."
"You seem to imply, brother, that my charms are not in themselves
sufficient. But a commercial traveler hardly commands that fine repose,
that distinction--that air of having been places and seen things and
known people--"
"Tush! I have seen American book agents who had all that--even the air of
having been places! Your instincts ought to serve you better, Shirley.
It's well that we go on to-morrow. I shall warn mother and the governor
that you need watching."
Shirley Claiborne's eyes rested again upon the calm reader of the _Neue
Freie Presse_. The waiter was now placing certain dishes upon the table
without, apparently, interesting the young gentleman in the least.
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