"Big words," he smiled. "But what is a hedonist?"

He nodded agreement when I had given the definition. "And you are
also," I continued, "a man one could not trust in the least thing
where it was possible for a selfish interest to intervene?"

"Now you're beginning to understand," he said, brightening.

"You are a man utterly without what the world calls morals?"

"That's it."

"A man of whom to be always afraid--"

"That's the way to put it."

"As one is afraid of a snake, or a tiger, or a shark?"

"Now you know me," he said. "And you know me as I am generally
known. Other men call me 'Wolf.'"

"You are a sort of monster," I added audaciously, "a Caliban who
has pondered Setebos, and who acts as you act, in idle moments, by
whim and fancy."

His brow clouded at the allusion. He did not understand, and I
quickly learned that he did not know the poem.

"I'm just reading Browning," he confessed, "and it's pretty tough.
I haven't got very far along, and as it is I've about lost my