So Blake was forced to wait, but his purpose suffered nothing by delay.

Returning on the morrow, he found Mr. Wilding at table with Nick
Trenchard, and he cut short the greetings of both men. He flung his
hat - a black castor trimmed with a black feather - rudely among the
dishes on the board.

"I have come to ask you, Mr. Wilding," said he, "to be so good as to
tell me the colour of that hat."

Mr. Wilding raised one eyebrow and looked aslant at Trenchard, whose
weather-beaten face was suddenly agrin with stupefaction.

"I could not," said Mr. Wilding, "deny an answer to a question set
so courteously." He looked up into Blake's flushed and scowling face
with the sweetest and most innocent of smiles. "You'll no doubt disagree
with me," said he, "but I love to meet a man halfway. Your hat, sir,
is as white as virgin snow.

Blake's slow wits were disconcerted for a moment. Then he smiled
viciously. "You mistake, Mr. Wilding," said he. "My hat is black."

Mr. Wilding looked more attentively at the object in dispute. He was
in a trifling mood, and the stupidity of this runagate debtor afforded
him opportunities to indulge it. "Why, true," said he, "now that I
come to look, I perceive that it is indeed black."

And again was Sir Rowland disconcerted. Still he pursued the lesson
he had taught himself.