We shook hands and parted.
My lodging at that time was in Camden Town. One afternoon, perhaps a fortnight later, I had walked for an hour or two, and on my way back I stopped at a bookstall in the High Street. Some one came up to my side; I looked, and recognised Christopherson. Our greeting was like that of old friends.
'I have seen you several times lately,' said the broken gentleman, who looked shabbier than before in the broad daylight, 'but I—I didn't like to speak. I live not far from here.'
'Why, so do I,' and I added, without much thinking what I said, 'do you live alone?'
'Alone? oh no. With my wife.'
There was a curious embarrassment in his tone. His eyes were cast down and his head moved uneasily.
We began to talk of the books on the stall, and turning away together continued our conversation. Christopherson was not only a well-bred but a very intelligent and even learned man. On his giving some proof of erudition (with the excessive modesty which characterised him), I asked whether he wrote. No, he had never written anything—never; he was only a bookworm, he said. Thereupon he crowed faintly and took his leave.
It was not long before we again met by chance. We came face to face at a street corner in my neighbourhood, and I was struck by a change in him. He looked older; a profound melancholy darkened his countenance; the hand he gave me was limp, and his pleasure at our meeting found only a faint expression.
'I am going away,' he said in reply to my inquiring look. 'I am leaving
London.'
'For good?'