pouch, mechanically as it were, then, returning it to his pocket, resumed his work, and I my mental photography.
After another five minutes or so had passed he remarked, without looking my way: "Fine afternoon we're having: going far to-day?"
"No, I'm not going any farther than this," I replied: "I was thinking of going on to Rome: but I've put it off."
"Pleasant place, Rome," he murmured: "you'll like it." It was some minutes later that he added: "But I wouldn't go just now, if I were you: too jolly hot."
"You haven't been to Rome, have you?" I inquired.
"Rather," he replied briefly: "I live there."
This was too much, and my jaw dropped as I struggled to grasp the fact that I was sitting there talking to a fellow who lived in Rome. Speech was out of the question: besides I had other things to do. Ten solid minutes had I already spent in an examination of him as a mere stranger and artist; and now the whole thing had to be done over again, from the changed point of view. So I began afresh, at the crown of his soft hat, and worked down to his solid British shoes, this time investing everything with the new Roman halo; and at last I managed to get out: "But you don't really live there, do you?" never doubting the fact, but wanting to hear it repeated.
"Well," he said, good-naturedly overlooking the slight rudeness of my query, "I live there as much as I live anywhere. About half the year sometimes. I've got a sort of a shanty there. You must come and see it some day."
"But do you live anywhere else as well?" I went on, feeling the forbidden tide of questions surging up within me.
"O yes, all over the place," was his vague reply. "And I've got a diggings somewhere off Piccadilly."
