Nicholls grunted but obeyed, and for the next few days Tavernake loafed. On his return one afternoon from a long walk, he saw a familiar figure sitting upon the sea wall in front of the workshop, a familiar figure but a strange one in these parts. It was Mr. Pritchard, in an American felt hat, and smoking a very black cigar. He leaned over and nodded to Tavernake, who was staring at him aghast.
“Hallo, old man!” he called out. “Run you to earth, you see!”
“Yes, I see!” Tavernake exclaimed.
“Come right along up here and let's talk,” Pritchard continued.
Tavernake obeyed. Pritchard looked him over approvingly. Tavernake was roughly dressed in those days, but as a man he had certainly developed.
“Say, you're looking fine,” his visitor remarked. “What wouldn't I give for that color and those shoulders!”
“It is a healthy life,” Tavernake admitted. “Do you mean that you've come down here to see me?”
“That's so,” Pritchard announced; “down here to see you, and for no other reason. Not but that the scenery isn't all it should be, and that sort of thing,” he went on, “but I am not putting up any bluff about it. It's you I am here to talk to. Are you ready? Shall I go straight ahead?”
“If you please,” Tavernake said, slowly filling his pipe.
“You dropped out of things pretty sudden,” Pritchard continued. “It didn't take me much guessing to reckon up why. Between you and me, you are not the first man who's been up against it on account of that young woman. Don't stop me,” he begged. “I know how you've been feeling. It was a right good idea of yours to come here. Others before you have tried the shady side of New York and Paris, and it's the wrong treatment. It's Hell, that's what it is, for them. Now that young woman—we got to speak of her—is about the most beautiful and the most fascinating of her sex—I'll grant that to start with—but she isn't worth the life of a snail, much less the life of a strong man.”