quiet, half-lit world of professors and curators and devotees of research; at
their amiable, unconvivial dinner parties he was most himself. His favourite
author was Montaigne.

Just as Mr. Cupples was finishing his meal at a little table on the veranda, a
big motor car turned into the drive before the hotel. 'Who is this?' he
enquired of the waiter. 'Id is der manager,' said the young man listlessly.
'He have been to meed a gendleman by der train.'

The car drew up and the porter hurried from the entrance. Mr. Cupples uttered
an exclamation of pleasure as a long, loosely built man, much younger than
himself, stepped from the car and mounted the veranda, flinging his hat on a
chair. His high-boned, quixotic face wore a pleasant smile; his rough tweed
clothes, his hair and short moustache were tolerably untidy.

'Cupples, by all that's miraculous!' cried the man, pouncing upon Mr. Cupples
before he could rise, and seizing his outstretched hand in a hard grip. 'My
luck is serving me today,' the newcomer went on spasmodically. 'This is the
second slice within an hour. How are you, my best of friends? And why are you
here? Why sit'st thou by that ruined breakfast? Dost thou its former pride
recall, or ponder how it passed away? I am glad to see you!'

'I was half expecting you, Trent,' Mr. Cupples replied, his face wreathed in
smiles. 'You are looking splendid, my dear fellow. I will tell you all about
it. But you cannot have had your own breakfast yet. Will you have it at my
table here?'

'Rather!' said the man. 'An enormous great breakfast, too--with refined
conversation and tears of recognition never dry. Will you get young Siegfried
to lay a place for me while I go and wash? I shan't be three minutes.' He