"And when so sad, thou canst not sadder,
Cry, and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder
Pitched between Heaven and Charing Cross."
He gave a faint sigh.
"I've read The Hound of Heaven. It's a bit of all right."
"It's generally thought so," I murmured.
"You don't meet anybody here who's read anything. They think it's swank."
There was a wistful look on his face, and I thought I divined the feeling that made him come to me. I was a link with the world he regretted and a life that he would know no more. Because not so very long before I had been in the London which he loved, he looked upon me with awe and envy. He had not spoken for five minutes perhaps when he broke out with words that startled me by their intensity.
"I'm fed up," he said. "I'm fed up."
"Then why don't you clear out?" I asked.
His face grew sullen.
"My lungs are a bit dicky. I couldn't stand an English winter now."