“Do you expect it to be gratified?”
“I! Why should I?”
“I don’t know. Something in your voice made me fancy that you did.”
He laughed.
“The London atmosphere is, perhaps, affecting me already,” he said.
“The London influence is taking hold of me. I told you it always
stirred my imagination.”
“At Boulogne-sur-mer!” I said, as the train ran into the station. “The
monster’s arms are longer than Goliath’s!”
The stoppage of the train interrupted our conversation. We got out
to stretch our legs for a moment, and as we did so I found myself
wondering why Vernon, generally a very frank man, at any rate with
me, should have met my plain question with an attempt at laughing
subterfuge. It was a very slight matter, of course. In another man I
should, perhaps, scarcely have noticed it. But it was not Vernon’s way,
and therefore it struck me. I felt that he wished to prevent me from
getting at the truth of his mind at this moment. Usually, his desire
certainly was that the truth of his mind should be known to me.
We travelled to Calais in silence. Then came the bustle of going
aboard the steamer and fortifying ourselves against the painful
attentions of a sharp north-easterly wind. When we were established
in our deck-chairs, and closely wrapped in rugs, we glanced round to
see whether we had any acquaintances among our fellow-passengers.
The steamer was just casting off, and some, like ourselves, were
already settled down for the voyage, while others were tramping up and
down briskly, with an air of determination, as if bent upon making
their blood circulate, and getting the maximum of benefit out of the
crossing. Among the latter was an elderly man, with pepper-and-salt
hair and a thin, aristocratic face.
“Hullo,” I said, “there’s Lord Elyn. I wonder where he’s come from.”
Turning in his walk, he was in front of us almost as I said the words,
and, seeing me, stopped, and, bending down, shook my hand.
“Where do you hail from?” he asked.
“Paris,” I answered. “I’ve been in Rome. And you?”
“Calais.”
“You’ve been staying at Calais?”
“No. I’m here for my medicine. I live on the Channel at present, or
nearly. My doctor, Peter Deeming—he’ll be Sir Peter before long,
I suppose—has prescribed the double voyage, from Dover and back,
every day of the week for a month. I sleep at the Burlington and eat
bœuf-à-la-mode at the Calais buffet every midday of my life just now.”
“Deeming’s a friend of mine—of ours,” I said. “May I introduce Mr.
Kersteven—Lord Elyn.”
The two men bowed.
“It’s a pity he doesn’t take his own medicine,” said Lord Elyn. “I’ve
tried to persuade him, but in vain so far. However, I’ve got his
promise to come down to-night—Saturday, you know—and stay till Monday,
and make the voyage with me to-morrow. I expect to find him at the
Burlington when I get back.”