he purest, the cleanest, and the best.

Three years passed in this fashion.

Chapter Three

Vandover had decided at lunch that day that he would not go back to work
at his studio in the afternoon, but would stay at home instead and read
a very interesting story about two men who had bought a wrecked opium
ship for fifty thousand dollars, and had afterward discovered that she
contained only a few tins of the drug. He was curious to see how it
turned out; the studio was a long way downtown, the day was a little
cold, and he felt that he would enjoy a little relaxation. Anyhow, he
meant to stay at home and put in the whole afternoon on a good novel.

But even when he had made up his mind to do this he did not immediately
get out his book and settle down to it. After lunch he loitered about
the house while his meal digested, feeling very comfortable and
contented. He strummed his banjo a little and played over upon the piano
the three pieces he had picked up: two were polkas, and the third, the
air of a topical song; he always played the three together and in the
same sequence. Then he strolled up to his room, and brushed his hair for
a while, trying to make it lie very flat and smooth. After this he went
out to look at Mr. Corkle, the terrier, and let him run a bit in the
garden; then he felt as though he must have a smoke, and so went back to
his room and filled his pipe. When it was going well, he took down his
book and threw himself into a deep leather chair, only to jump up again
to put on his smoking-jacket. All at once he became convinced that he
must have something to eat while he read, and so went to the kitchen and
got himself some apples and a huge slice of fresh bread. Ever since
Vandover was a little boy he had loved fresh bread and apples. Through
the windows of the dining-room he saw Mr. Corkle digging up great holes
in the geranium beds. He went out and abused him and finally let him
come back into the house and took him upstairs with him.

Then at last he settled down to his novel, in the very comfortable
leather chair, before a little fire, for the last half of August is cold
in San Francisco. The room was warm and snug, the fresh bread and apples
were delicious, the good tobacco in his pipe purred like a sleeping
kitten, and his novel was interesting and well written. He felt calm and
soothed and perfectly content, and took in the pleasure of the occasion
with the lazy complacency of a drowsin