“That same, old boy. Give us a grip of your fist, as on that night when you pulled me out of the ditch at Delhi, just in time to clear the bayonets of the pandys. A nate thing, and a close shave, wasn’t it? But’s what brought you to Boulogne?”
The question takes the traveller aback. He is not prepared to explain the nature of his journey, and with a view to evasion he simply points to the steamer, out of which the passengers are still swarming.
“Come, old comrade!” protests the Major, good-naturedly, “that won’t do; it isn’t satisfactory for bosom friends, as we’ve been, and still are, I trust. But, maybe, I make too free, asking your business in Boulogne?”
“Not at all, Mahon. I have no business in Boulogne; I’m on the way to Paris.”
“Oh! a pleasure trip, I suppose.”
“Nothing of the kind. There’s no pleasure for me in Paris or anywhere else.”
“Aha!” ejaculated the Major, struck by the words, and their despondent tone, “what’s this, old fellow? Something wrong?”
“Oh, not much—never mind.”
The reply is little satisfactory. But seeing that further allusion to private matters might not be agreeable, the Major continues, apologetically—
“Pardon me, Ryecroft. I’ve no wish to be inquisitive; but you have given me reason to think you out of sorts, somehow. It isn’t your fashion to be low-spirited, and you shan’t be, so long as you’re in my company—if I can help it.”