"Staying in Paris?" the elder man said—he too was smoking—when the younger had replied to his salutation.
"No; I am going home—I mean I am going to England—to-morrow."
"Ay, ay? I almost wish I were too. I'm taking my wife and daughters for a holiday. I don't much care for holidays myself. I hadn't time for enjoyment of such things when I could enjoy them, and of course when you get out of the way of enjoying yourself you never get into it again; it's a sort of groove, I suppose. Anyhow, we don't ever enjoy much, our people. You are English, I suppose?"
"Yes, I am English."
"Wish you weren't? I see."
Indeed, the tone in which the young man answered the question seemed to warrant this interpretation.
"Excuse me; I didn't say that," the young man said, a little sharply.
"No, no; I only thought you meant it. We are not bound, you know, to keep rattling up the Rule Britannia always among ourselves."
"I can assure you I am not at all inclined to rattle the Rule Britannia too loudly," the young man said, tossing the end of his cigar away and looking determinedly into the street with his hands dug deeply into his pockets.
The elder man smoked for a few seconds in silence, and looked up and down the long straight line of street.