As he talked and talked - but really not too much, for the rest of
us seemed to force it upon him - I became quite angry with myself.
I took his face to pieces in my mind, like a watch, and examined it
in detail. I could not say much against any of his features
separately; I could say even less against them when they were put
together. 'Then is it not monstrous,' I asked myself, 'that
because a man happens to part his hair straight up the middle of
his head, I should permit myself to suspect, and even to detest
him?'
(I may stop to remark that this was no proof of my sense. An
observer of men who finds himself steadily repelled by some
apparently trifling thing in a stranger is right to give it great
weight. It may be the clue to the whole mystery. A hair or two
will show where a lion is hidden. A very little key will open a
very heavy door.)
I took my part in the conversation with him after a time, and we
got on remarkably well. In the drawing-room I asked the host how
long he had known Mr. Slinkton. He answered, not many months; he
had met him at the house of a celebrated painter then present, who
had known him well when he was travelling with his nieces in Italy
for their health.
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