The study windows, which have broad comfortable window seats, overlook Hampstead Heath towards London.  Consequently, it being a fine afternoon in spring, the room is sunny.  As you face these windows, you have on your right the fireplace, with a few logs smouldering in it, and a couple of comfortable library chairs on the hearthrug; beyond it and beside it the door; before you the writing-table, at which the clerical gentleman sits a little to your left facing the door with his right profile presented to you; on your left a settee; and on your right a couple of Chippendale chairs.  There is also an upholstered square stool in the middle of the room, against the writing-table.  The walls are covered with bookshelves above and lockers beneath.

The door opens; and another gentleman, shorter than the clerical one, within a year or two of the same age, dressed in a well-worn tweed lounge suit, with a short beard and much less style in his bearing and carriage, looks in._

THE CLERICAL GENTLEMAN [familiar and by no means cordial] Hallo!  I didn’t expect you until the five o’clock train.

THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN [coming in very slowly] I have something on my mind.  I thought I’d come early.

THE CLERICAL GENTLEMAN [throwing down his pen] What is on your mind?

THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN [sitting down on the stool, heavily preoccupied with his thought] I have made up my mind at last about the time.  I make it three hundred years.

THE CLERICAL GENTLEMAN [sitting up energetically] Now that is extraordinary.  Most extraordinary.  The very last words I wrote when you interrupted me were ‘at least three centuries.’ [He snatches up his manuscript, and points to it].  Here it is:  [reading] ’the term of human life must be extended to at least three centuries.’

THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN.  How did you arrive at it?

A parlor maid opens the door, ushering in a young clergyman.

THE PARLOR MAID.  Mr Haslam. [She withdraws].

The visitor is so very unwelcome that his host forgets to rise; and the two brothers stare at the intruder, quite unable to conceal their dismay.  Haslam, who has nothing clerical about him except his collar, and wears a snuff-colored suit, smiles with a frank school-boyishness that makes it impossible to be unkind to him, and explodes into obviously unpremeditated speech.

HASLAM.  I’m afraid I’m an awful nuisance.  I’m the rector; and I suppose one ought to call on people.

THE TWEEDED GENTLEMAN [in ghostly tones] We’re not Church people, you know.

HASLAM.  Oh, I don’t mind that, if you don’t.  The Church people here are mostly as dull as ditch-water.  I have heard such a lot about you; and there are so jolly few people to talk to.  I thought you perhaps wouldn’t mind. Do you mind? for of course I’ll go like a shot if I’m in the way.