So, just to show him that I wasn’t to be treated that way, I said, quite shortly, “I can’t.  I’ve an appointment at ten o’clock.”

“What’s that?” he said—­he’d one of these rich deep voices that always sound consumptive.

“Take that thing off your eyes, and look at me,” he ordered.

Well, I was awfully indignant.

“If you think I’m going to be told to do things like this—­” I began.

“Take that thing off,” he just ordered again.

I’ve got to remember, of course, that you didn’t know Benlian. I didn’t then.  And for a chap just to stalk into a fellow’s place, and tell him to photograph him, and order him about ... but you’ll see in a minute.  I took the shade off my eyes, just to show him that I could browbeat a bit too.

I used to have a tall strip of looking-glass leaning against my wall; for though I didn’t use models much, it’s awfully useful to go to Nature for odd bits now and then, and I’ve sketched myself in that glass, oh, hundreds of times!  We must have been standing in front of it, for all at once I saw the eyes at the bottom of his pits looking rigidly over my shoulder.  Without moving his eyes from the glass, and scarcely moving his lips, he muttered: 

“Get me a pair of gloves, get me a pair of gloves.”

It was a funny thing to ask for; but I got him a pair of my gloves from a drawer.  His hands were shaking so that he could hardly get them on, and there was a little glistening of sweat on his face, that looked like the salt that dries on you when you’ve been bathing in the sea.  Then I turned, to see what it was that he was looking so earnestly and profoundly at in the mirror.  I saw nothing except just the pair of us, he with my gloves on.

He stepped aside, and slowly drew the gloves off.  I think I could have bullied him just then.  He turned to me.

“Did that look all right to you?” he asked.

“Why, my dear chap, whatever ails you?” I cried.

“I suppose,” he went on, “you couldn’t photograph me to-night—­now?”

I could have done, with magnesium, but I hadn’t a scrap in the place.  I told him so.  He was looking round my studio.  He saw my camera standing in a corner.

“Ah!” he said.

He made a stride towards it.  He unscrewed the lens, brought it to the lamp, and peered attentively through it, now into the air, now at his sleeve and hand, as if looking for a flaw in it.  Then he replaced it, and pulled up the collar of his dressing-gown as if he was cold.

“Well, another night of it,” he muttered; “but,” he added, facing suddenly round on me, “if your appointment was to meet your God Himself, you must photograph me at ten to-morrow morning!”

“All right,” I said, giving in (for he seemed horribly ill).  “Draw up to the stove and have a drink of something and a smoke.”

“I neither drink nor smoke,” he replied, moving towards the door.