"I'm glad you've come," I said, shaking hands. His clasp was firm, almost athletic. "We tea at four, but I don't think I told you that."
"No," he said, "you didn't. I always have tea at three and it didn't occur to me that the custom might be different."
"Don't apologize," said Bill. "It only takes a minute to make. Do you like it strong?"
He smiled.
"It's the only way I get it, at sea," he said. "Strong! Boiled would be a better word for it."
"We like it strong," said Mac. "Sit down please. Here, I'll take your hat."
He sank back in a chair and looked about him. For the first time we saw him without a hat. A wide head, full over the temples, and with thinning hair on the brow, it was in no wise unusual. The head of a professional man, shall I say? His hands lay palm downward on the arms of the chair, the knuckles white, the broad flat nails imperfectly manicured.
"You've got a snug little place here," he remarked. "A very snug little place. It's very old fashioned. I got quite a start when I stepped into—into the room from the street. Like the cottages in England. Art curtains, too!"
The tea came in then, and Bill offered him a cup. I think I was a little disappointed in his remarks. They were like his first impression on me the day before, so commonplace, so laboriously undistinguished that again the conviction was forced upon me that it was a pose. Had I expected too much? Was he merely a self-satisfied egoist, clever enough to perceive our interest and impose upon it? Bill endeavoured to clear the air. The mention of "art curtains" always made Mac restive.
"Do you like pictures?" she asked.