I need not stay to do more than mention the pens, the jar of tobacco,
five or six pipes lying here and there, and in a corner a small cast-iron
stove, with its low, open door wide open, and throwing out now and then a
volley of bright sparks; and to complete the picture, the cat arching her
back, and spitting threateningly at me with her armed paw uplifted.

All this scene was tinted with that deep rich amber light in which the
old Flemish painters delighted, and of which they alone possessed the
secret, and never left it to the generations after them.

"So you went out last night, doctor?" inquired my host, after we had both
installed ourselves, and while I had my hands in a warm place upon the
stove.

"Yes, pretty early," I answered. "I had to look after a patient."

This brief explanation seemed to satisfy the little hunchback, and he
lighted his blackened boxwood pipe, which was hanging over his chin.

"You don't smoke, doctor?"

"I beg your pardon, I do."

"Well, fill any one of these pipes. I was here," he said, spreading his
yellow hand over the open volume. "I was reading the chronicles of
Hertzog when you came."

"Ah, that accounts for the time I had to wait! Of course you stayed to
finish the chapter?" I said, smiling.