olive, almost swarthy, coloring of his skin, his deep-sunk eyes
with their changing expressions of gravity and humor, of tolerance
and intolerance, and I knew he was the sort of man one could talk
to on any subject and not be misunderstood. His hair was slightly
gray, and frequently his well-shaped hand would brush back a long
lock that fell across his temple. His clothes were not of a
clerical cut, and evidently had seen good service; and that he gave
little attention to personal details was evidenced by his cravat,
which was midway of his collar, and his collar of a loose,
ill-fitting kind.

About him was something intensely earnest, intensely eager and
alert, and, watching him, I realized he belonged to that little
group which through the ages has dared to differ with accepted
order; and for his daring he had suffered, as all must suffer who
feel as well as think.

"You don't mind," the smile on his face was whimsical, "if I take a
good draught of this, do you? It's been long since I've seen just
this sort of thing." His eyes were on a picture between two
windows. "Out of Denmark one rarely sees anything of Skovgaard's.
That Filipinno Lippi is excellent, also. At the Hermitage in St.
Petersburg I tried to get a copy like that"--he nodded at
Rembrandt's picture of himself--"but there was none to be had. Did
you get yours there?"

"Four years ago. I also got that photograph of Houdon's Voltaire
there."

He looked in the direction to which I pointed, and, getting up,