By a fortunate physical provision； most very substantial creatures
are also reposeful； and middle…class boarding…houses in the lesser
parts of London are not built for a man as big as a bull and excitable
as a kitten。
When Inglewood followed the stranger into the boarding…house；
he found him talking earnestly （and in his own opinion privately）
to the helpless Mrs。 Duke。 That fat； faint lady could only
goggle up like a dying fish at the enormous new gentleman；
who politely offered himself as a lodger； with vast gestures
of the wide white hat in one hand； and the yellow Gladstone bag
in the other。 Fortunately； Mrs。 Duke's more efficient niece
and partner was there to complete the contract； for； indeed；
all the people of the house had somehow collected in the room。
This fact； in truth； was typical of the whole episode。
The visitor created an atmosphere of comic crisis； and from
the time he came into the house to the time he left it； he somehow
got the company to gather and even follow （though in derision）
as children gather and follow a Punch and Judy。 An hour ago；
and for four years previously； these people had avoided
each other； even when they had really liked each other。
They had slid in and out of dismal and deserted rooms in search
of particular newspapers or private needlework。 Even now they
all came casually； as with varying interests； but they all came。
There was the embarrassed Inglewood； still a sort of red shadow；
there was the unembarrassed Warner； a pallid but solid substance。
There was Michael Moon offering like a riddle the contrast
of the horsy crudeness of his clothes and the sombre sagacity
of his visage。 He was now joined by his yet more comic crony；
Moses Gould。 Swaggering on short legs with a prosperous
purple tie； he was the gayest of godless little dogs；
but like a dog also in this； that however he danced and
wagged with delight； the two dark eyes on each side of his
protuberant nose glistened gloomily like black buttons。
There was Miss Rosamund Hunt； still with the find white hat
framing her square； good…looking face； and still with her native
air of being dressed for some party that never came off。
She also； like Mr。 Moon； had a new companion； new so far as this
narrative goes； but in reality an old friend and a protegee。
This was a slight young woman in dark gray； and in no way
notable but for a load of dull red hair； of which the shape
somehow gave her pale face that triangular； almost peaked；
appearance which was given by the lowering headdress and deep rich
ruff of the Elizabethan beauties。 Her surname seemed to be Gray；
and Miss Hunt called her Mary； in that indescribable tone
applied to a dependent who has practically become a friend。
She wore a small silver cross on her very business…like
gray clothes； and was the only member of the party who went
to church。 Last； but the reverse of least； there as Diana Duke；
studying the newcomer with eyes of steel； and listening
carefully to every idiotic word he said。 As for Mrs。 Duke；
she smiled up at him； but never dreamed of listening to him。
She had never really listened to any one in her life； which； some said；
was why she had survived。
Nevertheless； Mrs。 Duke was pleased with her new guest's
concentration of courtesy upon herself； for no one ever spoke
seriously to her any more than she listened seriously to any one。
And she almost beamed as the stranger； with yet wider and almost
whirling gestures of explanation with his huge hat and bag；
apologized for having entered by the wall instead of the front door。
He was understood to put it down to an unfortunate family tradition
of neatness and care of his clothes。
〃My mother was rather strict about it； to tell the truth；〃
he said； lowering his voice； to Mrs。 Duke。 〃She never liked
me to lose my cap at school。 And when a man's been taught
to be tidy and neat it sticks to him。〃
Mrs。 Duke weakly gasped that she was sure he must have had a good mother；
but her niece seemed inclined to probe the matter further。
〃You've got a funny idea of neatness；〃 she said； 〃if it's
jumping garden walls and clambering up garden trees。
A man can't very well climb a tree tidily。〃
〃He can clear a wall neatly；〃 said Michael Moon； 〃I saw him do it。〃
Smith seemed to be regarding the girl with genuine astonishment。
〃My dear young lady；〃 he said； 〃I was tidying the tree。 You don't want
last year's hats there； do you； any more than last year's leaves？
The wind takes off the leaves； but it couldn't manage the hat； that wind；
I suppose； has tidied whole forests to…day。 Rum idea this is； that tidiness
is a timid； quiet sort of thing； why； tidiness is a toil for giants。
You can't tidy anything without untidying yourself； just look at my trousers。
Don't you know that？ Haven't you ever had a spring cleaning？〃
〃Oh yes； sir；〃 said Mrs。 Duke； almost eagerly。 〃You will find
everything of that sort quite nice。〃 For the first time she
had heard two words that she could understand。
Miss Diana Duke seemed to be studying the stranger with a sort of spasm
of calculation； then her black eyes snapped with decision； and she said
that he could have a particular bedroom on the top floor if he liked：
and the silent and sensitive Inglewood； who had been on the rack through
these cross…purposes； eagerly offered to show him up to the room。
Smith went up the stairs four at a time； and when he bumped his head
against the ultimate ceiling； Inglewood had an odd sensation that the tall
house was much shorter than it used to be。
Arthur Inglewood followed his old friendor his new friend；
for he did not very clearly know which he was。 The face looked
very like his old schoolfellow's at one second and very unlike
at another。 And when Inglewood broke through his native
politeness so far as to say suddenly； 〃Is your name Smith？〃
he received only the unenlightening reply； 〃Quite right；
quite right。 Very good。 Excellent！〃 Which appeared to Inglewood；
on reflection； rather the speech of a new…born babe accepting
a name than of a grown…up man admitting one。
Despite these doubts about identity； the hapless Inglewood
watched the other unpack； and stood about his bedroom in all
the impotent attitudes of the male friend。 Mr。 Smith unpacked
with the same kind of whirling accuracy with which he climbed
a treethrowing things out of his bag as if they were rubbish；
yet managing to distribute quite a regular pattern all round
him on the floor。
As he did so he continued to talk in the same somewhat gasping manner
（he had come upstairs four steps at a time； but even without this his style
of speech was breathless and fragmentary）； and his remarks were still
a string of more or less significant but often separate pictures。
〃Like the day of judgement；〃 he said； throwing a bottle
so that it somehow settled； rocking on its right end。
〃People say vast universe。。。 infinity and astronomy；
not sure。。。 I think things are too close together。。。 packed up；
for travelling。。。 stars too close； really。。。 why； the sun's
a star； too close to be seen properly； the earth's a star；
too close to be seen at all。。。 too many pebbles on the beach；
ought all to be put in rings； too many blades of grass to study。。。
feathers on a bird make the brain reel； wait till the big bag
is unpacked。。。 may all be put in our right places then。〃
Here he stopped； literally for breaththrowing a shirt to the other end
of the room； and then a bottle of ink so that it fell quite neatly beyond it。
Inglewood looked round on this strange； half…symmetrical disorder with
an increasing doubt。
In fact； the more one explored Mr。 Smith's holiday luggage；
the less one could make anything of it。 One peculiarity of it
was that almost everything seemed to be there for the wrong reason；
what is secondary with every one else was primary with him。
He would wrap up a pot or pan in brown paper； and the unthinking
assistant would discover that the pot was valueless or even unnecessary；
and that it was the brown paper that was truly precious。
He produced two or three boxes of cigars； and explained
with plain and perplexing sincerity that he was no smoker；
but that cigar…box wood was by far the best for fretwork。
He also exhibited about six small bottles of wine； white and red；
and Inglewood； happening to note a Volnay which he knew to be excellent；
supposed at first that the stranger was an epicure in vintages。
He was therefore surprised to find that the next bottle was a vile sham
claret from the colonies； which even colonials （to do them justice）
do not drink。 It was only then that he observed that all six
bottles had those bright metallic seals of various tints；
and seemed to have been chosen solely because they have the three
primary and three secondary colours： red； blue； and yellow；
green； violet and orange。 There grew upon Inglewood an almost
creepy sense of the real childishness of this creature。
For Smith was really； so far as human psychology can be； innocent。
He had the sensualities of innocence： he loved the stickiness of gum；
and he cut white wood greedily as if he were cutting a cake。
To this man wine was not a doubtful thing to be defended or denoun