At the table I met Richard Forbes, a handsome, husky young man who seemed to take a special interest in Miss Gwendolyn, the daughter. There were also the aged mother of Norris, two maiden cousins of his--jolly women between forty-five and fifty years of age--a college president, and Mrs. Mushtop, a proud and talkative lady who explained to me that she was one of the Mushtops of Maryland. Of course you have met those interesting people. Ever since 1627 the Mushtops have been coming over from England with the first Lord Baltimore, and now they are quite numerous. While we ate, Norris said little, but seemed to enjoy the jests and stories better than the food. He had a great liking for good tobacco, and after luncheon showed me the room where he kept his cigars. There were thousands of them made from the best crops of Cuba, in sizes to suit the taste. “Here are some from the crop of '93,” he said, as he opened a box. “I have green cigars, if you prefer them, but I never smoke a cigar unless it crackles.” I took a crackler, and with its delicious aroma under my nose we went for a walk in the villa gardens. Some one had released a dozen Airedales, of whom my host was extremely fond, and they followed at his heels. I walked with the maiden cousins, one of whom said of Norris: “We're very fond of him. Often we sing, 'What a friend we have in Whitfield!' and it amuses him very much.” And it suggested to me that they had good reason to sing it. Norris was extremely fond of beautiful things, and his knowledge of both art and flowers was unusual. He showed us the conservatories and his art-gallery filled with masterpieces, but very calmly and with no flourish. “I've only a few landscapes here,” he said, “things that do not seem to quarrel with the hills and valleys.” “Or the hay and whiskers and the restful spirit beneath them,” I suggested. I knew that he had bought in every market of the world, and had given some of his best treasures to sundry museums of art in America, but they were always credited to “a friend,” and never to Whitfield Norris. On our return to the house he asked me to ride with him, and we got into the big car and went out for a leisurely trip on the country roads. The farmer-folk in field and dooryard waved their hands and stirred their whiskers as we passed. “They're all my friends,” he said. “Tenants and vassals!” I remarked. “You see, I've helped some of them in a small way, but always impersonally,” he answered, as if he had not heard me. “I have sought to avoid drawing their attention to me in any way whatever.” We drew up at a little house on a lonely road to ask our way. An Irish woman came to the car door as we stopped, and said: “God bless ye, sor! It does me eyes good to look an' see ye better--thanks to the good God! I haven't forgot yer kindness.” “But I have,” said Norris. The woman was on her mental knees before him as she stood looking into his face.