Selden was not aware that he had spoken more fully of
Mount Dunstan and his place than of other things. That this had been the
case, had been because Mr. Vanderpoel had intended it should be so. He
had subtly drawn out and encouraged a detailed account of the time
spent at Mount Dunstan vicarage. It was easily encouraged. Selden's
affectionate admiration for the vicar led him on to enthusiasm. The
quiet house and garden, the old books, the afternoon tea under the
copper beech, and the long talks of old things, which had been so new to
the young New Yorker, had plainly made a mark upon his life, not likely
to be erased even by the rush of after years.
"The way he knew history was what got me," he said. "And the way you got
interested in it, when he talked. It wasn't just HISTORY, like you learn
at school, and forget, and never see the use of, anyhow. It was things
about men, just like yourself--hustling for a living in their way, just
as we're hustling in Broadway. Most of it was fighting, and there are
mounds scattered about that are the remains of their forts and camps.
Roman camps, some of them. He took me to see them. He had a little old
pony chaise we trundled about in, and he'd draw up and we'd sit and
talk.
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