Then at last he settled down to his novel, in the very comfortable
leather chair, before a little fire, for the last half of August is cold
in San Francisco. The room was warm and snug, the fresh bread and apples
were delicious, the good tobacco in his pipe purred like a sleeping
kitten, and his novel was interesting and well written. He felt calm and
soothed and perfectly content, and took in the pleasure of the occasion
with the lazy complacency of a drowsing cat.

Vandover was self-indulgent--he loved these sensuous pleasures, he loved
to eat good things, he loved to be warm, he loved to sleep. He hated to
be bored and worried--he liked to have a good time.

At about half-past four o'clock he came to a good stopping-place in his
book; the two men had got to quarrelling, and his interest flagged a
little. He pushed Mr. Corkle off his lap and got up yawning and went to
the window.

Vandover's home was on California Street not far from Franklin. It was a
large frame house of two stories; all the windows in the front were bay.
The front door was directly in the middle between the windows of the
parlour and those of the library, while over the vestibule was a sort of
balcony that no one ever thought of using. The house was set in a large
well-kept yard. The lawn was pretty; an enormous eucalyptus tree grew at
one corner. Nearer to the house were magnolia and banana trees growing
side by side with pines and firs. Humming-birds built in these, and one
could hear their curious little warbling mingling with the hoarse chirp
of the English sparrows which nested under the eaves. The back yard was
separated from the lawn by a high fence of green lattice-work. The hens
and chickens were kept here and two roosters, one of which crowed every