prominent feature, were it not somehow for the qualification of the eyes. Those were as perpetually alert, busy, observant, as the rest was seemingly supine. They appeared to “peck” for interests among the moving throng, as a hen pecks for scattered grain. 

 “Wonderful hands,” he said suddenly, coming back to the artist. “Do you notice anything characteristic about them now?” 

 “No,” I said. “What?” 

 He did not answer, but applied for a refreshing moment or two to his grenadine. 

 “Ah!” he said, leaning back again, with a relishing motion of his lips. “A comfortable seat and a cool glass, and we have here the best café-chantant in the world.” 

 “Well, it suits me,” I agreed—“to pass the time.” 

 “Ah!” he said, “your friend is unpunctual?” 

 I yawned inexcusably. 

 “He always is. What would you think of an appointment, sir, three days overdue?” 

 “I should think of it with philosophy, having the Ritz cuisine and cellar to fall back upon.” 

 I turned to him interestedly, my hands behind my head. 

 “You have?” 

 “No, but you,” said he. 

 I was a bit puzzled and amused; but curious, too. 

 “You are not staying at the Ritz?” I asked. He shook his head good-humouredly. “Then how do you know I am?” 

 “There is not much mystery in that,” said he. “You happened to be standing on the steps when I happened to be passing. The rest you have admitted.” 

 “And among all these”—I waved my hand comprehensively—“you could remember me from that one glimpse?” 

 He laughed, but again ignored my question. 

 “How did you know,” I persisted, “that my friend was a man?” 

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