"
"And Mr. Beasley himself--" I began.
"Oh," she said, "HE isn't interesting. That's his trouble!"
"You mean his trouble not to--"
She interrupted me, speaking with sudden, surprising energy, "I mean
he's a man of no imagination."
"No imagination!" I exclaimed.
"None in the world! Not one ounce of imagination! Not one grain!"
"Then who," I cried--"or what--is Simpledoria?"
"Simple--what?" she said, plainly mystified.
"Simpledoria."
"Simpledoria?" she repeated, and laughed. "What in the world is that?"
"You never heard of it before?"
"Never in my life."
"You've lived next door to Mr. Beasley a long time, haven't you?"
"All my life."
"And I suppose you must know him pretty well."
"What next?" she said, smiling.
"You said he lived there all alone," I went on, tentatively.
"Except for an old colored couple, his servants."
"Can you tell me--" I hesitated. "Has he ever been thought--well,
'queer'?"
"Never!" she answered, emphatically. "Never anything so exciting! Merely
deadly and hopelessly commonplace." She picked up the saucer, now
exceedingly empty, and set it upon a shelf by the lattice door. "What
was it about--what was that name?--'Simpledoria'?"
"I will tell you," I said. And I related in detail the singular
performance of which I had been a witness in the late moonlight before
that morning's dawn. As I talked, we half unconsciously moved across the
lawn together, finally seating ourselves upon a bench beyond the
rose-beds and near the high fence.
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