“You are a fortunate man,” remarked I, “who can afford to indulge such expensive tastes.”

“Expensive,” he repeated musingly, as if that idea had never until then occurred to him.  “You are quite mistaken.  Expensive, as I understand the term, is not that which has a high intrinsic worth, but that which can only be procured at a price considerably above its real value.  In this sense, a hobby is not an expensive thing.  It is, as I regard it, one of the safest investments life has to offer.  An unambitious man like myself, without a hobby, would necessarily be either an idler or a knave.  And I am neither the one nor the other.  The truth is, my life was very poorly furnished at the start, and I have been laboring ever since to supply the deficiency.  I am one of those crude colorless, superfluous products which Nature throws off with listless ease in her leisure moments when her thoughts are wandering and her strength has been exhausted by some great and noble effort.”

Mr. Storm uttered these extraordinary sentiments, not with a careless toss of the head, and loud demonstrative ardor, but with a grave, measured intonation, as if he were reciting from some tedious moral book recommended by ministers of the gospel and fathers of families.  His long, dry face, with its perpendicular wrinkles, and the whole absurd proportion between his longitude and latitude, suggested to me the idea that Nature had originally made him short and stout, and then, having suddenly changed her mind, had subjected him to a prolonged process of stretching in order to adapt him to the altered type.  I had no doubt that if I could see those parts of his body which were now covered, they would show by longitudinal wrinkles the effects of this hypothetical stretching.  His features in their original shape may have been handsome, although I am inclined to doubt it; there were glimpses of fine intentions in them, but, as a whole, he was right in pronouncing them rather a second-rate piece of workmanship.  His nose was thin, sharp, and aquiline, and the bone seemed to exert a severe strain upon the epidermis, which was stretched over the projecting bridge with the tensity of a drum-head.  I will not reveal what an unpleasant possibility this niggardliness on Nature’s part suggested to me.  His eyes (the only feature in him which was distinctly Norse) were of a warm gray tint, and expressed frank severity.  You saw at once that, whatever his eccentricities might be, here was a Norseman in whom there was no guile.  It was these fine Norse eyes which at once prepossessed me in Storm’s favor.  They furnished me approximately with the key-note to his character; I knew that God did not expend such eyes upon any but the rarest natures.  Storm’s taste for old furniture was no longer a mystery; in fact, I began to suspect that there lurked a fantastic streak of some warm, deep-tinged hue somewhere in his bony composition, and my fingers began to itch with the desire to make a psychological autopsy.