"I'm not likely to have forgotten you," said the Lover.
"I fear my verdict was a great blow. You look very worried, very ill.
News like that is a great shock."
"It _is_ a little unsettling," said the Lover.
"Are you still going on with your usual work?"
"Yes."
"Speaking professionally, I think you are wrong. You lessen your chances
of life! Why don't you try a complete change?"
"Because--if you must know, my chances of life have ceased to interest
me."
The Lover was short with the Onlooker; but he persisted.
"Well, if one isn't interested in one's life, one may be interested in
one's death--or the manner of it. In your place, I should enlist. It's
better to die of a bullet in South Africa than of fright in London."
That roused the Lover, as it was meant to do.
"I don't really know what business it is of yours, sir," he said; "but
it's your business to know that they wouldn't pass a man with a heart
like mine."
"I don't know. They're not so particular just now. They want men. I
should try it if I were you. If you don't have a complete change you'll
go all to pieces. That's all."
The Onlooker got out at the next station. Short of owning to his own
lie, he had done what he could to insure its being found out for the lie
it was--or, at least, for a mistake. And when he had done what he could,
he saw that the Lover might not find it out--might be passed for the
Army--might go to the Front--might be killed--and then--"Well, I've
done my best, anyhow," he said to himself--and himself answered him:
"Liar--you have _not_ done your best! You will have to eat your lie.
Yes--though it will smash your life and ruin you socially and
professionally. You will have to tell him you lied--and tell him why.
You will never let him go to South Africa without telling him the
truth--and you know it."
"Well--you know best, I suppose," he said to himself.
* * * * *
"But are you perfectly certain?"
"Perfectly. I tell you, man, you're sound's a bell, and a fine fathom of
a young man ye are, too. Certain? Losh, man--ye can call in the whole
College of Physeecians in consultation, an' I'll wager me professional
reputation they'll endorse me opeenion. Yer hairt's as sound's a roach.
T'other man must ha' been asleep when ye consulted him. Ye'll mak' a
fine soldier, my lad."
"I think not," said the Lover--and he went out from the presence. This
time he reeled like a man too drunk to care how drunk he looks.
He drove in cabs from Harley Street to Wimpole Street, and from Wimpole
Street to Brooke Street--and he saw Sir William this and Sir Henry that,
and Mr. The-other-thing, the great heart specialist.
And then he bought a gardenia, and went home and dressed himself in his
most beautiful frock-coat and his softest white silk tie, and put the
gardenia in his button-hole--and went to see the Girl.
"Looks like as if he was going to a wedding," said his landlady.
When he had told the Girl everything, and when she was able to do
anything but laugh and cry and cling to him with thin hands, she said--
"Dear--I do so hate to think badly of anyone. But do you really think
that man was mistaken? He's very, very clever."
"My child--Sir Henry--and Sir William and Mr.--"
"Ah! I don't mean _that_. I _know_ you're all right. Thank God! Oh,
thank God! I mean, don't you think he may have lied to you to prevent
your--marrying me?"
"But why should he?"
"He asked me to marry him three weeks ago. He's a very old friend of
ours. I do hate to be suspicious--but--it is odd. And then his trying to
get you to South Africa. I'm certain he wanted you out of the way. He
wanted you to get killed. Oh, how can people be so cruel!"
"I believe you're right," said the Lover thoughtfully; "I couldn't have
believed that a man could be base like that, through and through. But I
suppose some people _are_ like that--without a gleam of feeling or
remorse or pity."
"You ought to expose him."
"Not I--we'll just cut him. That's all I'll trouble to do. I've got
_you_--I've got you in spite of him--I can't waste my time in hunting
down vermin."