"He was a good man," he said, more to himself than to Andrew, "and the world has lost a great philanthropist; but he is better as he is."
Then he lifted a paving-stone, and peered long and earnestly into the waters.
The short stout man, however, did not rise again.
[1] Some time afterwards Lord Rosebery convulsed an audience by a story about a friend of his who complained that you get "no forrarder" on claret. Andrew was that friend.
[2] He had fine ideas, but no money to work them out. One was to start a serious "Spectator," on the lines of the present one, but not so flippant and frivolous.
CHAPTER III
Lost in reverie, the stranger stood motionless on the Embankment. The racket of the city was behind him. At his feet lay a drowned world, its lights choking in the Thames. It was London, as it will be on the last day.
With an effort he roused himself and took Andrew's arm.
"The body will soon be recovered," he said, in a voice of great dejection, "and people will talk. Let us go."