“You would have thought,” corrected the stranger, without the flicker of an eyelid.
“I would have thought you were that lecturer.”
“Likenesses are deceptive,” observed the other.
“And, in spite of your new mustache, remembering a meeting at the Lion d’Or just off the Place Clichy a year later, I would have said—”
“You would have thought,” interpolated the other, imperturbably.
“I would have thought that you were still the same, and I would have said—that is, I would have thought that your name was Jerome Tillinghast.”
“But you would n’t say it.”
“Not on any account, if there is good reason against it in the opinion of Jerome Tillinghast—who, by the way, did n’t have that furrow over his temple when I knew him.”
“Shrapnel,” explained the other. “Russian campaign. Got me in the leg, too. So they packed me home, and Uncle Sam set me to work. My official name is James Tilley. And yours?”
Jeremy explained himself.