to the house to rest and get cool, Purvis crossed
the bare little garden, passed the stout rough paling of the corral,
and went towards the group of paraiso trees where Peter was sitting.
He wore his bowler hat and had the appearance of being a very delicate,
overworked City clerk.

'Ross is not at home, I suppose?' he said, sitting down beside Peter in
the shade and removing his hat. The hat always left a painful-looking
red line on Mr. Purvis's forehead, and it was removed whenever he sat
down. The surprising thing was that he should ever have worn such an
uncomfortable headgear.

'Oh, good morning, Purvis!' said Peter. 'No, Ross is not about, I
think. Did you want him?'

No, Mr. Purvis would not trouble Ross; it really did not matter--it was
nothing. Probably Mr. Purvis did not want to see Ross, and had no
business with him, and actually wanted to see some one else. It was
one of the wretched things about the little man that his conversation
was nearly always ambiguous, and that he never asked straight-forwardly
for anything he wanted. And yet, look what a head he had for business!
He had made one immense fortune out of nothing at all in the boom-time,
and had lost it when the slump came. Now he seemed on the way to make
a fortune again. His estancia lay on the river-bank, and was
independent of the old heart-breaking system of railway service in
Argentine for the conveyance of his alfalfa and wheat. He had been
successful where other men had failed. There must be an immense amount
of grit somewhere in that delicate frame! Perhaps his chronic bad
health and pathetically white appearance and the perpetual tear in his
pale eyes had a good deal to do with giving the impression that he must
necessarily be inefficient. His dreamy gaze and soft voice heightened
the suggestion, and it was needful at the outset to discount Mr.
Purvis's appearance altogether before accepting the fact that his
mental powers were above the average.

Purvis sat down, wiped his pale forehead with the bar of red across it,
and returned his handkerchief to the pocket of his dark tweed coat. He
produced a small bottle of tabloids, and shaking a couple of them into
the palm of his hand he proceeded to swallow them with a backward throw
of his head. Tabloids were Mr. Purvis's only personal indulgence. He
had been recommended them for his nerves, and he had swallowed so many
that had they not been perfectly innocuous he must have di