He was standing on the landing, appraising with a quick eye the Kakemonos and prints that covered the distempered walls. We are rather proud of our "Japs," as Bill calls them. I even tried to learn something of the language from the "boy" who was our servant in San Francisco. He was not a scholarly boy, and he told lies in English, so that it is possible his tuition was of no value. I remember Bill was ironic because, when Nakamura was dismissed in ignominy, and wrote on the kitchen wall for the benefit of his successor, I was unable to decipher the message. "Do you care for this sort of thing?" said Mac. "That's original," pointing to a fine Hiroshige. "I used to," replied Carville, feeling for his pipe. "I was a good while in that trade--coal from Moji to Singapore. I think they're best at a distance though--the people, I mean." Mac protested against this "narrow" view. "Yes, yes, I know," said Mr. Carville, coming into the studio. "I read Lafcadio Hearn when I was younger; read him again out in Japan. Humph!" Whether his characteristic ejaculation referred to Hearn or the studio I cannot determine. His interest was obvious, but it was interest, not of a connoisseur, but of a man looking round another man's workshop. Von Roon used to say in Chelsea, "There is hope for him who looks with attention upon his neighbour's tools." Mr. Carville sank slowly into a chair, his eyes fixed upon a recent nude study. "We haven't any Scotch, but if you care for Rye----" said Mac, reaching for a tray on the throne. Mr. Carville's eye lost its vague, reflective expression as it fell upon the tray. "Ah?" he said, "I'd rather have good Rye than--than--well, you know what most of the Scotch is here. No--no water, thanks. I take it as I find it." It was a new facet of his character, this. We watched him swallow the neat spirit at a gulp and place the empty glass on the tray without emotion. Mac and I sipped gently and waited for Mr. Carville to begin. "I've been rather worried just lately, with one thing and another," he observed, putting away his little brass tobacco-box. "Second went home to get married last trip, and the Third, promoted, you understand, needs an eye. Very willing and all that, but he's been in these big hotel-ships, Western ocean all his life, and as I say, he needs an eye. I was telling you about my brother, if I remember." We murmured that he had, and watched Mr. Carville's obvious enjoyment of his pipe. "Ah!" he said, "the Brignole station in Genoa. Humph!"