“Cornwall, mind.”
Richard nodded, and he was left alone, to make up his mind a dozen times that he could not go down to the old place without a great sacrifice of dignity, and as often something seemed to whisper him that he must go; and to that faint whisper he lent an attentive ear, for the desire grew so strong at last that he found himself unable to resist.
A Fellow-Traveller.
“Don’t mind telling you now,” said Frank Pratt, sitting back in the railway carriage, with his hands under his head, and great puffs of smoke issuing from between his lips as he stared at Richard, who was gazing quietly at the pleasant Devon prospect past which they flew.
“Don’t mind telling me what?” said Richard, dreamily.
“That I never expected to get you down here. Dick, old man, I’ve felt like a steam-tug fussing about a big ship these last few days. However, I’ve got you out of dock at last.”
“Yes,” said Richard, dreamily, “you’ve got me out of dock at last.”
They relapsed into silence for a time, Pratt sitting watching his friend, and noting more than ever the change that had come over him during the last few months. There were lines in his forehead that did not exist before, and a look of staid, settled melancholy, very different from the calm, insouciant air that used to pervade his countenance.
“Poor old Dick,” muttered Pratt, laying aside his pipe; “I mustn’t let him look down like this.” Then aloud, “Dick, old boy, I’m going to preach to you.”