Then at last he settled down to his novel, in the very comfortable leather chair, before a little fire, for the last half of August is cold in San Francisco.  The room was warm and snug, the fresh bread and apples were delicious, the good tobacco in his pipe purred like a sleeping kitten, and his novel was interesting and well written.  He felt calm and soothed and perfectly content, and took in the pleasure of the occasion with the lazy complacency of a drowsing cat.

Vandover was self-indulgent—­he loved these sensuous pleasures, he loved to eat good things, he loved to be warm, he loved to sleep.  He hated to be bored and worried—­he liked to have a good time.

At about half-past four o’clock he came to a good stopping-place in his book; the two men had got to quarrelling, and his interest flagged a little.  He pushed Mr. Corkle off his lap and got up yawning and went to the window.

Vandover’s home was on California Street not far from Franklin.  It was a large frame house of two stories; all the windows in the front were bay.  The front door was directly in the middle between the windows of the parlour and those of the library, while over the vestibule was a sort of balcony that no one ever thought of using.  The house was set in a large well-kept yard.  The lawn was pretty; an enormous eucalyptus tree grew at one corner.  Nearer to the house were magnolia and banana trees growing side by side with pines and firs.  Humming-birds built in these, and one could hear their curious little warbling mingling with the hoarse chirp of the English sparrows which nested under the eaves.  The back yard was separated from the lawn by a high fence of green lattice-work.  The hens and chickens were kept here and two roosters, one of which crowed every time a cable-car passed the house.  On the door cut through the lattice-fence was a sign, “Look Out for the Dog.”  Close to the unused barn stood an immense windmill with enormous arms; when the wind blew in the afternoon the sails whirled about at a surprising speed, pumping up water from the artesian well sunk beneath.  There was a small conservatory where the orchids were kept.  Altogether, it was a charming place.  However, adjoining it was a huge vacant lot with cows in it.  It was full of dry weeds and heaps of ashes, while around it was an enormous fence painted with signs of cigars, patent bitters, and soap.

Vandover stood at a front window and looked out on a rather dreary prospect.  The inevitable afternoon trades had been blowing hard since three, strong and brisk from the ocean, driving hard through the Golden Gate and filling the city with a taint of salt.  Now the fog was coming in; Vandover could see great patches of it sweeping along between him and the opposite houses.  All the eucalyptus trees were dripping, and occasionally there came the faint moan of the fog-horn out at the heads.  He could see up the street for nearly two miles as it climbed over Nob