'I must have that hat.'

He paused reflectively, leaning on one elbow, as he made the tea which
Simon Shawn had brought and left on the night-table. And again, at the
third cup, he repeated to himself that he must possess the hat.

He had a passion for tea. His servants had received the strictest orders
to supply him at early morn with materials sufficient only for two cups.
Nevertheless, they were always a little generous, and, by cheating
himself slightly in the first and the second cup, the votary could
often, to his intense joy, conjure a third out of the pot.

After glancing through the newspaper which accompanied the tea, he
jumped vivaciously out of bed, veiled the splendour of his pyjamas
beneath a quilted toga, and disappeared into a dressing-room, whistling.

'Shawn!' he cried out from his bath, when he heard the rattle of the
tea-tray.

'Yes, sir?'

'Play me the Chopin Fantasie, will you. I feel like it.'

'Certainly, sir,' said Simon, and paused. 'Which particular one do you
desire me to render, sir?'

'There is only one, Shawn, for piano solo.'

'I beg pardon, sir.'