He offered his two hands, as Theodore introduced me; I gave him my own, and he stood smiling at me like some quaint old image in ivory and ebony, scanning my face with a curiosity which he took no pains to conceal.  “God bless me,” he said, at last, “how much you look like your father!” I sat down, and for half an hour we talked of many things—­of my journey, of my impressions of America, of my reminiscences of Europe, and, by implication, of my prospects.  His voice is weak and cracked, but he makes it express everything.  Mr. Sloane is not yet in his dotage—­oh no!  He nevertheless makes himself out a poor creature.  In reply to an inquiry of mine about his health, he favored me with a long list of his infirmities (some of which are very trying, certainly) and assured me that he was quite finished.

“I live out of mere curiosity,” he said.

“I have heard of people dying from the same motive.”

He looked at me a moment, as if to ascertain whether I were laughing at him.  And then, after a pause, “Perhaps you don’t know that I disbelieve in a future life,” he remarked, blandly.

At these words Theodore got up and walked to the fire.

“Well, we shan’t quarrel about that,” said I. Theodore turned round, staring.

“Do you mean that you agree with me?” the old man asked.

“I certainly haven’t come here to talk theology!  Don’t ask me to disbelieve, and I’ll never ask you to believe.”

“Come,” cried Mr. Sloane, rubbing his hands, “you’ll not persuade me you are a Christian—­like your friend Theodore there.”

“Like Theodore—­assuredly not.”  And then, somehow, I don’t know why, at the thought of Theodore’s Christianity I burst into a laugh.  “Excuse me, my dear fellow,” I said, “you know, for the last ten years I have lived in pagan lands.”

“What do you call pagan?” asked Theodore, smiling.

I saw the old man, with his hands locked, eying me shrewdly, and waiting for my answer.  I hesitated a moment, and then I said, “Everything that makes life tolerable!”

Hereupon Mr. Sloane began to laugh till he coughed.  Verily, I thought, if he lives for curiosity, he’s easily satisfied.

We went into dinner, and this repast showed me that some of his curiosity is culinary.  I observed, by the way, that for a victim of neuralgia, dyspepsia, and a thousand other ills, Mr. Sloane plies a most inconsequential knife and fork.  Sauces and spices and condiments seem to be the chief of his diet.  After dinner he dismissed us, in consideration of my natural desire to see my friend in private.  Theodore has capital quarters—­a downy bedroom and a snug little salon.  We talked till near midnight—­of ourselves, of each other, and of the author of the memoirs, down stairs.  That is, I spoke of myself, and Theodore listened; and then Theodore descanted upon Mr. Sloane, and I listened.  His commerce with the old man has sharpened