VII
One of the French artists he had met in Rome wrote to him from Paris. Why should he not go there? There was nothing for him to do in London; Lizzie Baker had disappeared, and in the year and a half that he spent in Paris learning to draw he forgot her and his friends in Southwick. Nor did he remember them when he returned to London; not until one evening, strolling down Regent Street, he came upon Willy Brookes suddenly.
“How do you do, my dear Willy? I haven't seen you for—for—how long?”
“I should think it must be now, let me see, I have got it down somewhere; when I get home I'll look it up.”
“Hang the looking up; better come and look me up.”
The young men laughed.
“It must be nearly a year and a half.”
“I should think it must. Where are you staying? I am staying at Morley's Hotel, Trafalgar Square. Come and dine with me to-night.”
Willy reflected. He stroked his moustache reflectively.
“No,” he said, “I am afraid I can't. I have something to do.”