Ephraim Quixtus, Ph.D., was a tall gaunt man of forty, with a sallow complexion, raven black hair thinning at the temples and on the crown of his head, and great, mild, china-blue eyes. A reluctant moustache gave his face a certain lack of finish. Clementina’s quick eye noted it at once. She screwed up her face and watched him. “I could make a much more presentable thing of you if you were clean shaven,” she said brusquely. “I couldn’t shave off my moustache.” “Why not?” He started in alarm. “I think the Society would prefer to have their President in the guise in which he presided over them.” “Umph!” said Clementina. She looked at him again, and with a touch of irony; “Perhaps it’s just as well. Sit down.” “Thank you,” said Quixtus, seating himself on one of the stiff Sheraton chairs. And then, courteously; “You have travelled far since we last met, Clementina. You are famous. I wonder what it feels like to be a celebrity.” She shrugged her shoulders. “In my case it feels like leading apes in hell. By the way, when did I last see you?” “It was at poor Angela’s funeral, five years ago.” “So it was,” said Clementina. There was a short silence. Angela was his dead wife and her distant relation. “What has become of Will Hammersley?” she asked suddenly. “He has given up writing to me.” “Still in Shanghai, I think. He went out, you know, to take over the China branch of his firm—just before Angela’s death, wasn’t it? It’s a couple of years or more since I have heard from him.” “That’s strange; he was an intimate friend of yours,” said Clementina. “The only intimate friend I’ve ever had in my life. We were at school and at Cambridge together. Somehow, although I have many acquaintances and, so to speak, friends, yet I’ve never formed the intimacies that most men have. I suppose,” he added, with a sweet smile, “it’s because I’m rather a dry stick.” “You’re ten years older than your age,” said Clementina, frankly. “You want shaking up. It’s a pity Will Hammersley isn’t here. He used to do you a lot of good.” “I’m glad you think so much of Hammersley,” said Quixtus. “I don’t think much of most people, do I?” she said. “But Hammersley was a friend in need. He was to me, at any rate.” “Are you still fond of Sterne?” he asked. “I think you are the only woman who ever was.” She nodded. “Why do you ask?” “I was thinking,” he said, in his quiet, courtly way, “that we have many bonds of sympathy, after all; Angela, Hammersley, Sterne, and my scapegrace nephew, Tommy.” “Tommy is a good boy,” said Clementina, “and he’ll learn to paint some day.” “I must thank you for your very great kindness to him.” “Bosh!” said Clementina. “It’s a great thing for a young fellow—wild and impulsive like Tommy—to have a good friend in a woman older than himself.”