“I’ve had quite enough rest,” he said. “I’m all right. And this is an
important matter. It means a very large sum of money.”
“Health’s more than money.”
“Certainly, but I feel quite my own man again.”
He did not look it, but I said no more.
I knew that argument would be useless. He sent a note to Vernon, and,
when I bade him good-bye, begged me to express his regret at being
obliged to cancel the dinner.
“But I hope some day he’ll come to dine with me in London. Do tell him
so,” he said, as he stepped into the omnibus to go to the station. “I
should like to meet him again.”
Those were his last words. I repeated them to Vernon.
“I shall not forget that invitation, I assure you,” he said quietly.
“And I may be able to enjoy Deeming’s hospitality sooner than he,
perhaps, expects.”
“Why? You’re surely not going to London yet awhile? I thought you loved
your June in Rome better than any other month of the year.”
“But I’ve had so many Junes in Rome that I think I shall make a change.
By the way, when will you be in London?”
“Oh, certainly by the last week in April.”
“If I asked to travel back with you, would you object to my company?”
“My dear fellow! Of course I should be delighted.”
“Let us consider it a bargain, then.”
He spoke decisively, and shook me by the hand as if to clinch the
bargain. Nor did he forget it.
The third week in April found us in Paris, and on the twenty-second of
that month we stepped into the _rapide_ at the Gare du Nord, bound for
England.
We sat opposite to one another in the compartment, with, at first,
ramparts of London papers between us; but, as we drew near to Boulogne,
first Vernon’s rampart fell, and then mine. The thought of the
nearness of England had got hold of us both. London ideas were taking
possession of us, and, as the train rushed on towards the sea, we
became restless, as if the roar of the great city were already in our
ears.
“Do you know,” I said, breaking our mutual silence, “that, familiar as
I am with London, I can never return to it after an absence without a
feeling of apprehension. It always seems to me that in its black and
smoky arms it must hold some disaster which it is waiting to give to
me.”
“I’ve had that sensation, too,” said Vernon. “Among the cities of the
world London is the monster, not merely by right of size but by other,
and more mysterious rights. It affects my imagination more than any of
the European capitals, but rather frightfully than agreeably. I feel
that it is the city of adventure, but that every adventure there must
have a fearsome ending.”
“No doubt we are affected by its climate and its atmosphere.”
“I dare say. Still, if anything very strange, very uncommon, should
ever happen to me, I am quite sure that it will be in London.”