The struggle against natural forces and the effect of the issue on at least one, say, exalted--" He interrupted me by an aggressive-- "Would truth be any good to you ?" "I shouldn't like to say," I answered, cautiously.

"It's said that truth is stranger than fiction." "Who says that ?" he mouthed.
"Oh! Nobody in particular." I turned to the window; for the contemptuous beggar was oppressive to look at, with his immovable arm on the table.

I suppose my unceremonious manner provoked him to a comparatively long speech.
"Did you ever see such a silly lot of rocks?
Like plums in a slice of cold pudding." I was looking at them--an acre or more of black dots scattered on the steel-grey shades of the level sea, under the uniform gossamer grey mist with a formless brighter patch in one place--the veiled whiteness of the cliff coming through, like a diffused, mysterious radiance.

It was a delicate and wonderful picture, something expressive, suggestive, and desolate, a symphony in grey and black--a Whistler.

But the next thing said by the voice behind me made me turn round.