k I told you that."

"No," he said, "you didn't. I always have tea at three and it didn't
occur to me that the custom might be different."

"Don't apologize," said Bill. "It only takes a minute to make. Do you
like it strong?"

He smiled.

"It's the only way I get it, at sea," he said. "Strong! Boiled would be
a better word for it."

"_We_ like it strong," said Mac. "Sit down please. Here, I'll take your
hat."

He sank back in a chair and looked about him. For the first time we saw
him without a hat. A wide head, full over the temples, and with thinning
hair on the brow, it was in no wise unusual. The head of a professional
man, shall I say? His hands lay palm downward on the arms of the chair,
the knuckles white, the broad flat nails imperfectly manicured.

"You've got a snug little place here," he remarked. "A very snug little
place. It's very old fashioned. I got quite a start when I stepped
into--into the room from the street. Like the cottages in England. Art
curtains, too!"

The tea came in then, and Bill offered him a cup. I think I was a little
disappointed in his remarks. They were like his first impression on me
the day before, so commonplace, so laboriously undistinguished that
again the conviction was forced upon me that it was a pose. Had I
expected too much? Was he merely a self-satisfied egoist, clever enough
to perceive our interest and impose upon it? Bill endeavoured to clear
the air. The mention of "art curtains" always made Mac restive.

"Do you like pictures?" she asked.

He gave her one of his quick glances.

"Some," he replied. "I believe, if I'd been taught, that I could have
done something in that line," and he pointed with his saucer towards a
water-colour, a drawing of the Golden Gate from Russian Hill.

I hardly knew what to make of this new development. I really did not
believe he had looked at it. Moreover the drawing was not clamant with
noisy daubs to attract the attention. It was not even recognizable as a
view of the Golden Gate. It was a study of colour-combination, in an
unusually high key, of interest to artists, but not to the public. Only
the _cognoscenti_ had remarked that picture before.

"You like it?" I said, taking it down and handing it to him.

"Ah!" he said, setting his cup and saucer on the floor. "Yes, that's
it, that's it." He studied it. "That's what I should have liked to
tackle. Sugar-plums, eh?"

We looked at him in astonishment, and he assumed an