The old man who taught me theology in Istamboul when I was a boy used to talk philosophy to me by the hour, though I do not believe he knew much about it.

He was a plodder, and went up ladders in search of information, like the man you describe.

But he was very patient and good to me; the peace of Allah be with him." It was late, and soon afterwards we parted for the night.

The next day was Sunday, and I had a heap of unanswered letters to attend to, so we agreed to meet after tiffin and ride together before dining with Mr.
Ghyrkins and the Westonhaughs.
I went to my room and sat a while over a volume of Kant, which I always travel with--a sort of philosopher's stone on which to whet the mind's tools when they are dulled with boring into the geological strata of other people's ideas.

I was too much occupied with the personality of the man I had been talking with to read long, and so I abandoned myself to a reverie, passing in review the events of the long day.
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