“I would, Major, and with pleasure, were it any other time. But, I confess, just now I’m not in the mood for making new acquaintance—least of all among my countrymen.—To tell the truth, I’m going to Paris chiefly with a view of avoiding them.”
“Nonsense! You’re not the man to turn solitaire, like Simon Stylites, and spend the rest of your days on the top of a stone pillar! Besides, Paris is not the place for that sort of thing. If you’re really determined on keeping out of company for awhile—I won’t ask why—remain with me, and we’ll take strolls along the sea beach, pick up pebbles, gather shells, and make love to mermaids, or the Boulognese fish-fags, if you prefer it. Come, Ryecroft, don’t deny me. It’s so long since we’ve had a day together, I’m dying to talk over old times—recall our camaraderie in India.”
For the first time in forty-eight hours Captain Ryecroft’s countenance shows an indication of cheerfulness—almost to a smile, as he listens to the rattle of his jovial friend, all the pleasanter from its patois recalling childhood’s happy days. And as some prospect of distraction from his sad thoughts—if not a restoration of happiness—is held out by the kindly invitation, he is half inclined to accept it. What difference whether he find the grave of his griefs in Paris or Boulogne—if find it he can?
“I’m booked to Paris,” he says mechanically, and as if speaking to himself.
“Have you a through ticket?” asks the Major, in an odd way.
“Of course I have.”
“Let me have a squint at it?” further questions the other, holding out his hand.
“Certainly. Why do you wish that?”
“To see if it will allow you to shunt yourself here.”
“I don’t think it will. In fact, I know it don’t. They told me so at Charing Cross.”