dreamy abstraction upon the ceiling. As I came towards him, he
drew at the cigarette between his fingers, glanced at me, looked
away again, and expelled another mouthful of smoke. He was not
interested in me.

Perhaps this indifference piqued me, and I saw him with prejudiced
eyes. At any rate, he seemed to me a singularly unprepossessing
youth. That portrait had flattered him. He had a stout body and a
round, unwholesome face. His eyes were dull, and his mouth dropped
discontentedly. He had the air of one who is surfeited with life.

I am disposed to imagine, as Mr Abney would have said, that my
manner in addressing him was brisker and more incisive than Mr
Abney's own. I was irritated by his supercilious detachment.

'Throw away that cigarette,' I said.

To my amazement, he did, promptly. I was beginning to wonder
whether I had not been too abrupt--he gave me a curious sensation
of being a man of my own age--when he produced a silver case from
his pocket and opened it. I saw that the cigarette in the fender
was a stump.

I took the case from his hand and threw it on to a table. For the
first time he seemed really to notice my existence.

'You've got a hell of a nerve,' he said.

He was certainly exhibiting his various gifts in rapid order,
This, I took it, was what Mr Abney had called 'expressing himself