The next moment, below me, I saw the house, a freshly painted, trim,
flimsy structure, modern, and very much out of harmony with the
splendid savagery surrounding it. It struck a nasty, cheap note in the
noble, gray monotony of headland and sea.

The descent was easy enough. I crossed the crescent beach, hard as
pink marble, and found a little trodden path among the rocks, that led
to the front porch of the house.

There were two people on the porch--I heard their voices before I saw
them--and when I set my foot upon the wooden steps, I saw one of them,
a woman, rise from her chair and step hastily towards me.

"Come back!" cried the other, a man with a smooth-shaven, deeply lined
face, and a pair of angry, blue eyes; and the woman stepped back
quietly, acknowledging my lifted hat with a silent inclination.

The man, who was reclining in an invalid's rolling-chair, clapped both
large, pale hands to the wheels and pushed himself out along the
porch. He had shawls pinned about him, an untidy, drab-colored hat on
his head, and, when he looked down at me, he scowled.

"I know who you are," he said, in his acid voice; "you're one of the
Zoological men from Bronx Park. You look like it, anyway."

"It is easy to recognize you from your reputation," I replied,
irritated at his discourtesy.