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S the clock in the tower of Independence Hall struck the hour of three, a small man took a very large and shapely cigar from his pocket and began to smoke it. With an inimitable twinkle in his right eye, he said to me, as I stood in front of my canvas trying to paint his portrait, "It is time to smoke." As the pale brown cigar changed its tip to a tender gray, and the smoke curled slowly upwards, Mr. Curtis seemed to settle himself more comfortably into the arm-chair that was perched upon a high throne in the corner of the room.

But he was not at his ease. He sat well enough, as regards keeping still in the right position, but I began to notice that he did not belong to the chair, and that discovery was soon followed by the idea that he did not seem to belong to anything, that he was an être apart, self-centred and detached.

Here then was a man with everything which men desire within his reach, at his feet, who possessed one thing only—his mind; all else was immaterial, meaning it was only material and did not matter. And yet it was difficult to believe that such keen eyes allowed the slightest detail to escape their comprehensive gaze.

On mentioning this peculiarity to Mr. Ludington, he showed a little surprise, and almost instantly said, "You