“Lord, it’s Punter!”
It was odd how names came back from the moss-grown recesses of memory. He shook hands with the old man.
“Yes, it’s me. And you’re looking just as young as ever. I recognized you at once. And look here, Punter, if you want to do me a service, just spread the news about Cambridge. If I’ve got to go through an Ancient Mariner or Wandering Jew explanation every time I meet anyone, it’ll eventually get on my nerves.”
“I’m sure every one will rejoice to have you back, sir,” said the gyp.
“Punter’s bringing my lunch. I hope you’ll stay and share it with me,” said Sheepshanks politely.
“Delighted,” said Baltazar, and the old man having retired, he went on with his tale.
He continued it over lunch in the next room, a homelier chamber, where Sheepshanks kept his choice books and his two or three good Italian pictures and a few ivories and photographs of nephews and nieces. It was during the meal that he noticed for the first time a lack of effusiveness on the part of his host. Not that he had expected the prim Sheepshanks to throw his arms about him and dance with joy; but he had hoped for more genial signs of welcome. After all, he reflected, he had let the college down very badly; possibly he was still unforgiven. Well, if that was so, he would have to earn forgiveness.
In his tale he had reached the first visit to London.
“I was out of my element, as you perceive,” said he, “and then something happened which made me decide suddenly to go into seclusion for two or three years. Real seclusion. I don’t do things by halves. In some remote spot where not a whisper of the outer world could ever reach me.”
“But what kind of thing could have happened to cause you to take such an extraordinary step?” asked Sheepshanks.