chimney-corner laden with bottles, decanters and tall tumblers. Paul
Overt was a faithless smoker; he would puff a cigarette for reasons with
which tobacco had nothing to do. This was particularly the case on the
occasion of which I speak; his motive was the vision of a little direct
talk with Henry St. George. The "tremendous" communion of which the
great man had held out hopes to him earlier in the day had not yet come
off, and this saddened him considerably, for the party was to go its
several ways immediately after breakfast on the morrow. He had, however,
the disappointment of finding that apparently the author of "Shadowmere"
was not disposed to prolong his vigil. He wasn't among the gentlemen
assembled when Paul entered, nor was he one of those who turned up, in
bright habiliments, during the next ten minutes. The young man waited a
little, wondering if he had only gone to put on something extraordinary;
this would account for his delay as well as contribute further to Overt's
impression of his tendency to do the approved superficial thing. But he
didn't arrive--he must have been putting on something more extraordinary
than was probable. Our hero gave him up, feeling a little injured, a
little wounded, at this loss of twenty coveted words. He wasn't angry,
but he puffed his cigarette sighingly, with the sense of something rare
possibly missed. He wandered away with his regret and moved slowly round
the room, looking at the old prints on the walls. In this attitude he
presently felt a hand on his shoulder and a friendly voice in his ear
"This is good. I hoped I should find you. I came down on purpose." St.
George was there without a change of dress and with a fine face--his
graver one--to which our young man all in a flutter responded. He
explained that it was only for the Master--the idea of a little talk--that
he had sat up, and that, not finding him, he had been on the point of
going to bed.

"Well, you know, I don't smoke--my wife doesn't let me," said St. George,