"By the Gods, but I'm glad to see you!" was his invariable greeting. "Draw up! draw up! Go get a pipe--the tobacco is in the yellow jar." This was when Mac was alone or when no one had the floor, and the shuttlecock of general conversation was being battledored about. If, however, Mac or any of his guests had the floor, and was giving his experience at home or abroad, or was reaching the climax of some tale, it made no difference who entered no one took any more notice of him than of a servant who had brought in an extra log, the lost art of listening still being in vogue in those days and much respected by the occupants of the chairs--by all except Boggs, who would always break into the conversation irrespective of restrictions or traditions. Mac had the floor this afternoon. [Illustration: MacWhirter.] I knew this from the sound of his voice through the half-closed door as I reached the top-floor landing. "Refused, gentlemen, refused point blank," I heard Mac say. "He wouldn't let them search him; wouldn't empty his pockets as the others had done; it made a most disagreeable impression on every one at the table. Collins, his host, was amazed; so was Moulton." My own head was now abreast of the old Chinese screen. "What reason did he give?" Boggs asked. "Didn't give any. Just hemmed and hawed, and blushed like a girl." I was inside the cosy room now, its air etched with wavy lines of tobacco smoke, showing blue in the dim glare of the skylight overhead; had nodded to Boggs, whose face was just visible over the top of Mac's most comfortable chair--Boggs always hides his bulk in this particular chair, having furnished none of his own, a weakness or selfishness which we all recognize and permit--and was adding my snow-covered coat and hat to a collection, facing the blazing logs, and within reach of their genial warmth, when Mac's voice again dominated the hum of questioning raised by the half-circle of toasting shins. "Collins, of course, never said a word--how could he? The old fellow had been his friend for years; went to school with him. Now, gentlemen, what would you have thought?" It was easy to see that our host had full possession of the floor. His feet were firmly planted on the half-worn Daghestan, his square, erect back turned to the crackling blaze, his head raised, arms swinging, hands extended, accentuating every point that he made with that peculiar twist of the thumb common to all painters. I dropped quietly into a chair. Better keep still and smoke on with my ear-shutters fastened back and my eyes fixed on the speaker's face. The cue would come my way before Mac had got very far in his story. Again Mac put the question, this time in a rising voice, demanding an answer. "What would you have thought?"