“Finche,” I said, “I’ve come down here for sea, and sky, and trees, and dolce far niente.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“Well, loafing,” I laughed.
“There an’t no value to be got out of that.”
“Isn’t there, though? And I mean to drop Wall Street, and scrip, and shares, and every sort of business. I won’t even look at a newspaper till I choose to go back.”
“You an’t in earnest?” said my host, gazing at me in solemn astonishment.
“A fact, upon my honor.”
“Well, that—say, there’s some one saluting. It’s not me—I don’t know the man. It must be a friend of yours, sir.”
I adjusted my double glass and gazed towards the lich-gate.
A slight sense of shock vibrated through my system. Leaning upon the gate, and nodding at me like a Chinese mandarin, was Mr. Herbert Price, Temple, London, E. C.