He was on the point of making a remark upon the weather in the hope of starting a conversation when the old man forestalled him.
You never know a man’s face properly till you talk to him, and Freyberger, as the conversation proceeded, sat drinking in with his eyes the details and the tout ensemble of the countenance before him.
What a strange, weary, wicked and altogether mysterious face it was!
One said to oneself, “If blood circulates behind it, that blood must surely be grey in colour.”
They conversed, and it was wonderful how the old man drew Freyberger out, and in the course of ten minutes or so, without seeming at all inquisitive, learned most of his private affairs and much about his life.
Freyberger told him frankly and freely how he had come to England only a few weeks ago from Bremen in search of a job as book-keeper, how he had no friends in England, how he had a maiden aunt living in Cologne, and a widowed sister living Düsseldorf, how he had wandered down to Sonning in search of the picturesque.
The girl behind the bar here put down her book to answer a call from the coffee-room, and they found themselves alone.
“You are fond of nature?” asked the old man, sipping the remains of his absinthe.
“It is my passion,” replied Freyberger.
“Well, if you will allow me to be your guide, I will conduct you to a spot the most beautiful in England, quite close here, it lies.”