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I had recently read in the Contributors’ Club of the “Atlantic,” an article by a woman, who said that the letters of the alphabet seemed to be variously colored in her mind; that is, her mental picture gave to one letter a green hue, to another red, and so on. I spoke of this to Griggs, and he was much interested. He said that the sound of a cornet was always red to him. I asked him whether it made any difference who blew it, but Griggs scorns to notice puns, and he answered: “Not a particle. I don’t pretend to explain it, but it is so. Likewise, to me the color of scarlet tastes salt, while crimson is sweet.”

I opened my eyes and looked at him in amazement. It sounded like a bit out of “Alice in Wonderland.” Then I remembered that it was Griggs who was talking, and that he has a mind. When I don’t understand something about Griggs, I lay it to his mind and think no more about it. So I shut my eyes again and listened.

“By the way,” said he, “how does time run in your mind?”

“Why, I never thought of its running at all, although it passes quickly enough, for the most part!”