Stanley looked and sounded like a man without a care in the world, though in his black hair shone threads of silver. His manner was of complete good-humour, despite the suggestion of heartless deviltry in his dark eyes. His complexion was of a swarthy clearness, like a Spaniard's, and in the cleft of his massive chin gleamed a small triangular scar. Something about him suggested to Hemming a gull blown inland. He talked of a dozen things dear to Hemming's heart,--of salmon fishing in Labrador, of the sea's moods, of London, of polo, and of current literature,--treating each from the view-point of an outsider. The others were contented to sit quiet and listen. Many of his adventures by land and sea would have been laughed at by ordinary stay-at-homes, or even by Cook's tourists, but Hemming's knowledge of such things enabled him to see probabilities where Tarmont suspected lies. He was still spinning yarns when O'Rourke came in. Several days passed before Hemming again saw Stanley--restless, painful days for Hemming, for Stanley's stories had reawakened all that was vagrant in his blood; the other side of his heart was longing for England, and pride and self-ordained duty held him in New York. Also, the condition of his dearest friend was getting on his nerves. To see the man who had so often sworn that change and adventure were the breath of life to him eyeing furniture with calculating glances, pricing dinner-sets, and drawing plans of cottages on the margins of otherwise neglected manuscripts, struck him as verging on the idiotic. So he prowled about the town, and smoked more than Smith considered good for him. Late one night, upon leaving an up-town studio, where a pale youth made priceless posters and delectable coffee, he was overtaken by Stanley. "Where are you off to?" asked Stanley. "Home," replied Hemming. "Are you sleepy?" "No." "Then I wish you'd let me come along. I want to talk."