He thought he was reciting to himself, but that was not the case. People turned and watched him, and when he passed the green doorway of Dr. Harkley Bawkley, the eminent brain specialist, they were visibly disappointed. He did not unlock the rosewood door of his flat, but rang the silver bell. He preferred this course. Ali, his Coast servant, in his new livery of blue and silver, made the opening of the door something only less picturesque than the opening of Parliament. This intention may not have been unconnected with the fact that there were two or three young ladies, and very young at that, on the landing, waiting for the door of the opposite flat to open. Ali opened the door. The lower half of him was blue and silver, the upper half was Oxford shirt and braces, for he had been engaged in cleaning the silver. "What the deuce do you mean by it?" demanded Bones wrathfully. "Haven't I given you a good uniform, you blithering jackass? What the deuce do you mean by opening the door, in front of people, too, dressed like a--a--dashed naughty boy?" "Silverous forks require lubrication for evening repast," said Ali reproachfully. Bones stalked on to his study. It was a lovely study, with a carpet of beautiful blue. It was a study of which a man might be proud. The hangings were of silk, and the suite was also of silk, and also of blue silk. He sat down at his Louis XVI. table, took a virgin pad, and began to write. The inspiration was upon him, and he worked at top speed. "I saw a litle bird--a litle bird--a litle bird, floating in the sky," he wrote. "Ever so high! Its pretty song came down, down to me, and it sounded like your voice the other afternoon at tea, at tea. And in its flite I remembered the night when you came home to me." He paused at the last, because Marguerite Whitland had never come home to him, certainly not at night. The proprieties had to be observed, and he changed the last few lines to: "I remember the day when you came away to Margate on the sea, on the sea." He had not seen his book of poems for a week, but there was a blank page at the end into which the last, and possibly the greatest, might go. He pulled the drawer open. It was empty. There was no mistaking the fact that that had been the drawer in which the poems had reposed, because Bones had a very excellent memory. He rang the bell and Ali came, his Oxford shirt and braces imperfectly hidden under a jersey which had seen better days. "Ali"--and this time Bones spoke rapidly and in Coast Arabic--"in this drawer was a beautiful book in which I had written many things." Ali nodded. "Master, that I know, for you are a great poet, and I speak your praises whenever I go into the _cafe_, for Hafiz did not write more beautifully than you." "What the dooce," spluttered Bones in English, "do you mean by telling people about me--eh, you scoundrel? What the dooce do you mean by it, you naughty old ebony?"