'From Bombay. It was a long journey to Bombay, but it seemed my only chance.' Then he shuddered.
'Aren't you well?' I asked.
'Oh, yes, I am very well now. But everything seems difficult to realize; you, now, and all this,' and he cast his eyes quickly around him, 'seem to be something which exists in the imagination, rather than objective, tangible things.'
He spoke perfect English, and his manner suggested education, refinement.
'You don't mind my speaking to you, do you?' he added somewhat nervously.
'Not at all,' and I scrutinized him more closely. 'If you did not speak English so well,' I said, 'I should have thought you were an Indian,'—and then I realized that I had been guilty of a faux pas, for I saw his face flush and his lips tremble painfully.
'You were thinking of my clothes,' was his reply. 'They were the best I could get. When I realized that I was alive, I was half naked; I was very weak and ill, too. I picked up these things,' and he glanced at his motley garments, 'where and how I could. On the whole, however, people were very kind to me. When I got to Bombay, my feeling was that I must get to England.'
'And where are you going now?' I asked.
'I don't know. Luckily I have a little money; I found it inside my vest. I suppose I must have put it there before——' and then he became silent, while the strange, wistful look in his eyes was intensified.
'What is your name?' I asked.