As I walked back to the Grand Hotel I thought over Vernon’s last words
and the way in which he had said them. Should I obey his injunctions?
I confessed to myself with reluctance that my conversation with him
that evening had made me suspicious of a friend. Yet I had Vernon’s
own word for it that he was a crank on the subject of animals, and
my recent experience of him almost forced me to the conclusion that
in his nature, usually so gentle, there must be an odd strain of
fanaticism. My mind was troubled, and I reached the hotel without
coming to a decision as to whether I would speak to Deeming about his
dog or not. As I came into the outer hall I saw him through the glass
door sitting alone in the winter garden, smoking, with a paper, which
he was not reading, lying on his knee. He did not see me, and, for a
moment, I watched him with a furtive curiosity of which I was secretly
half-ashamed. Perhaps stirred by my gaze, he suddenly looked up, caught
sight of me, smiled, and made a slight gesture, as if beckoning me to
come in and have a talk. I took off my overcoat and joined him.
“I’ve just come from Vernon,” I said, sitting down and lighting a cigar.
[Illustration: “AS I WALKED BACK, I THOUGHT OVER VERNON’S LAST WORDS.”]
“Ah!” said Deeming.
He uncrossed his legs, crossed them again, and added:
“He’s got a beautiful house.”
“Yes, one of the most beautiful in Rome. He wants you to dine with him
one night, I believe. Probably he’ll ask you in a day or two.”
“Very good of him.”
His voice was scarcely cordial.
“He’s a curious fellow,” he continued. “Easy in his manner, but
difficult really to know, I fancy.”
“If you dine with him you may find him less reserved,” I said, rather
perfunctorily.
“I don’t suppose he’ll ask me alone.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“I don’t think he cares much about me,” Deeming continued abruptly. “Do
you?”
“My dear fellow, he hardly knows you,” I exclaimed. “You haven’t been
quarrelling over the animal world this afternoon, have you?”
And I laughed, but without much cordiality, I fear.
“Did he say we had?”
“Good heavens, no! But you differ on the dog question, and so⸺”
Deeming frowned.
“The dog question!” he said. “Why on earth should you call it that?”
“Well, I mean that he’s very sensitive since he lost his dog, and
that perhaps makes him a little unreasonable at times, though I must
say that till the other night when he dined here I never heard him
mention the subject of animals and their relation with man. And, by the
way, you’ve been equally silent. Till the other night I never knew you
possessed a dog.”
“Is it such an important matter that I should go about proclaiming it?”
His tone was suddenly hard and impatient.
“No, of course not.”
“I hate people who bother their friends about their pets. It’s almost
as bad as the women who are always talking about the marvellous beauty
and genius of their squalling babies.”
He set his lips together as if he never meant to open them again, and
I saw a look as of acute nervous irritation in his eyes. It warned me
not to persevere in the conversation, and made me vexed with myself for
having given way to Vernon’s desire.
“Let’s have a nightcap,” I said. “What do you think of doing to-morrow?
What do you say to getting a carriage and driving over to lunch at
Tivoli?”
He looked more easy.
“If it is fine I should enjoy it immensely,” he said in a calmer voice.
And we talked of old gardens and the beauty of rushing water.
We spent the following day together at Tivoli. When we came back
towards evening, the hall-porter handed to Deeming a note. It was from
Vernon, inviting him to dine two days later.
“You see how he hates you!” I said chaffingly when he told me. “Do you
mean to go?”
“Oh, yes. Why not?”
He spoke lightly, holding the note open in his hand.
He did not go, however, and for this reason. On the morning of the day
he was to dine with Vernon, he left Rome for England. An urgent summons
from a patient, he told me, made it necessary for him to go to London
without a moment’s delay.