s,
to my mind, gives its point to the story I want to tell. It is a story
of primitive superstition, and it startles me that anything of the sort
should survive in a civilisation which, if not very distinguished, is
certainly very elaborate. I cannot get over the fact that such
incredible things should happen, or at least be thought to happen, right
in the middle, so to speak, of telephones, tram-cars, and daily papers.
And the friend who showed me Honolulu had the same incongruity which I
felt from the beginning was its most striking characteristic.

He was an American named Winter and I had brought a letter of
introduction to him from an acquaintance in New York. He was a man
between forty and fifty, with scanty black hair, grey at the temples,
and a sharp-featured, thin face. His eyes had a twinkle in them and his
large horn spectacles gave him a demureness which was not a little
diverting. He was tall rather than otherwise and very spare. He was born
in Honolulu and his father had a large store which sold hosiery and all
such goods, from tennis racquets to tarpaulins, as a man of fashion
could require. It was a prosperous business and I could well understand
the indignation of Winter _pere_ when his son, refusing to go into it,
had announced his determination to be an actor. My friend spent twenty
years on the stage, sometimes in New York, but more often on the road,
for his gifts were small; but at last, being no fool, he came to the
conclusion that it was better to sell sock-suspenders in Honolulu than
to play small parts in Cleveland, Ohio. He left the stage and went into
the business. I think after the hazardous existence he had lived so
long, he thoroughly enjoyed the luxury of driving a large car and living
in a beautiful house near the golf-course, and I am quite sure, since he
was a man of parts, he managed the business competently. But he could
not bring himself entirely to break his connection with the arts and
since he might no longer act he began to paint. He took me to his studio
and showed me his work. It was not at all bad, but not what I should
have expected from him. He painted nothing but still life, very small
pictures, perhaps eight by ten; and he painted very delicately, with the
utmost finish. He had evidently a passion for detail. His fruit pieces
reminded you of the fruit in a picture by Ghirlandajo. While you
marvelled a little at his patience, you could not help being impressed
by his dexte