Then my annoyance gave way to amazement and curiosity. Why on earth should a man do this thing? On the fourteenth evening I could stand it no longer, and so soon as he appeared I opened the French window, crossed the verandah, and directed myself to the point where he invariably stopped.

He had his watch out as I came up to him. He had a chubby, rubicund face with reddish brown eyes⁠—previously I had seen him only against the light. “One moment, sir,” said I as he turned.

He stared. “One moment,” he said, “certainly. Or if you wish to speak to me for longer, and it is not asking too much⁠—your moment is up⁠—would it trouble you to accompany me?”

“Not in the least,” said I, placing myself beside him.

“My habits are regular. My time for intercourse⁠—limited.”

“This, I presume, is your time for exercise?”

“It is. I come here to enjoy the sunset.”

“You don’t.”

“Sir?”

“You never look at it.”

“Never look at it?”

“No. I’ve watched you thirteen nights, and not once have you looked at the sunset⁠—not once.”

He knitted his brows like one who encounters a problem.

“Well, I enjoy the sunlight⁠—the atmosphere⁠—I go along this path, through that gate”⁠—he jerked his head over his shoulder⁠—“and round⁠—”

“You don’t. You never have been. It’s all nonsense. There isn’t a way. Tonight, for instance⁠—”