l, we're not in America," said Philip frigidly.

"How old is he? Twenty-five? And he does nothing but stay in pensions and
write poetry."

"You don't know him," said Philip hotly.

"Oh yes, I do: I've met a hundred and forty-seven of him."

Weeks' eyes twinkled, but Philip, who did not understand American humour,
pursed his lips and looked severe. Weeks to Philip seemed a man of middle
age, but he was in point of fact little more than thirty. He had a long,
thin body and the scholar's stoop; his head was large and ugly; he had
pale scanty hair and an earthy skin; his thin mouth and thin, long nose,
and the great protuberance of his frontal bones, gave him an uncouth look.
He was cold and precise in his manner, a bloodless man, without passion;
but he had a curious vein of frivolity which disconcerted the
serious-minded among whom his instincts naturally threw him. He was
studying theology in Heidelberg, but the other theological students of his
own nationality looked upon him with suspicion. He was very unorthodox,
which frightened them; and his freakish humour excited their disapproval.

"How can you have known a hundred and forty-seven of him?" asked Philip
seriously.

"I've met him in the Latin Quarter in Paris, and I've met him in pensions
in Berlin and Munich. He lives in small hotels in Perugia and Assisi. He
stands by the dozen before the Botticellis in Florence, and he sits on all
the benches of the Sistine Chapel in Rome. In Italy he drinks a little too
much wine, and in Germany he drinks a great deal too much beer. He always
admires the right thing whatever the right thing is, and one of these days
he's going to write a great work. Think of it, there are a hundred and
forty-seven great works reposing in the bosoms of a hundred and
forty-seven great men, and the tragic thing is that not one of those
hundred and forty-seven great works will ever be written. And yet the
world goes on."

Weeks spoke seriously, but his gray eyes twinkled a little at the end of
his long speech, and Philip flushed when he saw that the American was
making fun of him.

"You do talk rot," he said crossly.

XXVII

Weeks had two little rooms at the back of Frau Erlin's house, and one of
them, arranged as a parlour, was comfortable enough for him to invite
people to sit in. After supper, urged perhaps by the impish humour which
was the despair of his friends in Cambridge, Mass., he often asked Philip
and Hayward to come i