"Bruges," he went on, "that dear and wonderful old city of Flanders, is the place of my birth. You have visited it?"
"No," I said, "but I have often heard that it is the most picturesque city in Europe, and I should like to see it awfully."
"There is nothing in the world like Bruges," he said. "Bruges the Dead they call it; a fit spot in which to die."
"If you talk like that I shall reconsider my decision."
"Pardon, pardon!" he laughed, suddenly wearing an appearance of gaiety. "I am happier now. When can we go? To-morrow? Let it be to-morrow."
"Impossible," I said. "The idea of a man whose thigh was broken less than a fortnight since taking a sea voyage to-morrow! Do you know that under the most favorable circumstances it will be another five or six weeks before the bone unites, and that even then the greatest care will be necessary?"
His gaiety passed.
"Five more weeks here?"
"I fear so."
"But our agreement shall come into operation at once. You will visit me daily? Rather, you will live here?"