"'Two degrees,' mused the father, 'and there's forty minutes to a degree. That would make it now, at the present moment in Jefferson--' "He leaped to his feet with a cry: "'I've got it!' he shouted, 'I see it.' "'See what?' asked his wife, alarmed. "'Why, it's four o'clock in Jefferson, and just time for my ride. That's what I'm wanting.' "There could be no doubt about it. For five-and-twenty years he had lived by clockwork. But it was by Jefferson clockwork, not London clockwork. He had changed his longitude, but not himself. The habits of a quarter of a century were not to be shifted at the bidding of the sun. "He examined the problem in all its bearings, and decided that the only solution was for him to return to the order of his old life. He saw the difficulties in his way, but they were less than those he was at present encountering. He was too formed by habit to adapt himself to circumstances. Circumstances must adapt themselves to him. "He fixed his office hours from three till ten, leaving himself at half- past nine. At ten he mounted his horse and went for a canter in the Row, and on very dark nights he carried a lantern. News of it got abroad, and crowds would assemble to see him ride past. "He dined at one o'clock in the morning, and afterwards strolled down to his club. He had tried to discover a quiet, respectable club where the members were willing to play whist till four in the morning, but failing, had been compelled to join a small Soho gambling-hell, where they taught him poker. The place was occasionally raided by the police, but thanks to his respectable appearance, he generally managed to escape. "At half-past four he returned home, and woke up the family for evening prayers. At five he went to bed and slept like a top. "The City chaffed him, and Bayswater shook its head over him, but that he did not mind. The only thing that really troubled him was loss of spiritual communion. At five o'clock on Sunday afternoons he felt he wanted chapel, but had to do without it. At seven he ate his simple mid- day meal. At eleven he had tea and muffins, and at midnight he began to crave again for hymns and sermons. At three he had a bread-and-cheese supper, and retired early at four a.m., feeling sad and unsatisfied. "He was essentially a man of habit." * * * * * The unobtrusive stranger ceased, and we sat gazing in silence at the ceiling. At length my friend rose, and taking half-a-sovereign from his pocket, laid it upon the table, and linking his arm in mine went out with me upon the deck. THE ABSENT-MINDED MAN You ask him to dine with you on Thursday to meet a few people who are anxious to know him. "Now don't make a muddle of it," you say, recollectful of former mishaps, "and come on the Wednesday." He laughs good-naturedly as he hunts through the room for his diary.