"You're different, Phil; it's the women it troubles."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Well, what do you want?" I asked.
"A cigar," he said.
"You know where they are, don't you?" I replied.
He went to my cigar cabinet and selected one thoughtfully. Then he lit it and drew his favourite armchair up to the hearth. His profile was towards me, and I remarked, as I had done a hundred times before, what a beautiful face it was. The lines were as clear and round as a woman's; the mouth sensitively delicate, but firmly set; the nose straight, with only the slightest indentation below the brows. It was a face of singular purity and candour. After a time he bent forward towards the blaze and looked hard into the fire's heart.
"I believe I'm done for, Phil," he said.
"What do you mean?"
"I won't tell you till you put down those brushes. You know you can't see."
"All right," I said. "If you come here to make me neglect my duty, I suppose I must put up with it."