“It's enough,” the vagrant said, “that they feel I'm not a bird of their feather. They cannot change, neither can I. I have never wanted to remain where I 'm not welcome.”
Shelton turned to the window, and stared into the darkness; he would never quite understand this vagabond, so delicate, so cynical, and he wondered if Ferrand had been swallowing down the words, “Why, even you won't be sorry to see my back!”
“Well,” he said at last, “if you must go, you must. When do you start?”
“I 've arranged with a man to carry my things to the early train. I think it better not to say good-bye. I 've written a letter instead; here it is. I left it open for you to read if you should wish.”
“Then,” said Shelton, with a curious mingling of relief, regret, good-will, “I sha'n'. see you again?”
Ferrand gave his hand a stealthy rub, and held it out.
“I shall never forget what you have done for me,” he said.
“Mind you write,” said Shelton.
“Yes, yes”—the vagrant's face was oddly twisted—“you don't know what a difference it makes to have a correspondent; it gives one courage. I hope to remain a long time in correspondence with you.”
“I dare say you do,” thought Shelton grimly, with a certain queer emotion.