"Yes," I said, "I know that. You will get yourself into trouble one of these days."
He went on speaking.
"About a week ago I went down Wardour Street and saw an Italian looking in at a shop window. I did not know that he was an Italian at the time. The national characteristics were not very strongly marked in him. He was quite well dressed, rather like a well-to-do young City man. His head was abnormal. The breadth from the end of the eyebrow to the ear was enormous. His eyes were not of the same colour; his skin was like parchment; he continually moved the tip of his nose. His nostrils opened and shut. He looked to me to be a very queer beast indeed, and I meant to talk to him.
"After a while he went into a restaurant. I waited ten minutes and then went in after him. I sat down at the same table, and, by way of opening a conversation, knocked over his glass of claret, breaking the glass. Then, of course, I apologised and ordered a waiter to replace it. He at once countermanded the order, and turned to me, saying in excellent English, 'Pray do not trouble. I had quite finished with it.'
"'But,' I said, 'you must let me. Your glass was untouched.'
"'Yes,' he said, 'but I never drink it.'
"I looked amazed. 'I could explain,' he added, 'but it is a little difficult to understand, and it would bore you.'
"'The only things that I care about,' I replied, 'are the things which are not ordinary, and are a little difficult to understand. Unless you are a dipsomaniac, triumphing over temptation, I fail to see why you should order wine which you have no intention of drinking.'
"'Your explanation is wrong,' he replied. 'I ordered the claret because I wanted to smell it.'
"As he seemed to find that conclusive, I observed that even that did not clear the thing up.