but for seclusion or, at least, select companionship. The man's entry had deprived him of both, and he resented it.
But if the presence of this stranger involved a breach of contract, his conduct was a positive affront—an indignity; for, no sooner had the train started than he fixed upon Mr. Pembury a gaze of impertinent intensity, and continued thereafter to regard him with a stare as steady and unwinking as that of a Polynesian idol.
It was offensive to a degree, and highly disconcerting withal. Mr. Pembury fidgeted in his seat with increasing discomfort and rising temper. He looked into his pocket-book, read one or two letters and sorted a collection of visiting-cards. He even thought of opening his umbrella. Finally, his patience exhausted and his wrath mounting to boiling-point, he turned to the stranger with frosty remonstrance.
"I imagine, sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me, should we ever meet again—which God forbid."
"I should recognize you among ten thousand," was the reply, so unexpected as to leave Mr. Pembury speechless.
"You see," the stranger continued impressively, "I've got the gift of faces. I never forget."
"That must be a great consolation," said Pembury.
