Peter Deeming died on the thirtieth of June, in the year 1900. In
June of the following year, as I was walking past the Knightsbridge
Barracks, I met Vernon strolling along in the sunshine, with a
cigarette in his mouth. When he saw me, he stopped, took my hand, and
clasped it warmly.
“Back at last!” he said.
“Yes. I only arrived yesterday. Did you winter in Rome, as usual?”
“No. I’ve not been out of England.”
“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you’ve been facing
the London fogs while I’ve been in Africa and Sicily?”
He nodded.
“What can have been your reason?”
He put his arm through mine.
“Let’s go into the Park,” he said. “We’ll take a stroll, and I’ll tell
you.”
We turned into the Park by the nearest gate, and walked gently along
under the trees. It was a strangely radiant day for London—a day that
seemed full of hope and gaiety. Many children were about laughing,
playing, calling to each other. Poor people basked in the sunshine,
stretched upon the short grass. Carriages rolled by, drawn by fine
horses. In the trees the birds were singing, as innocently as they sing
in retired country places. And I felt glad and at ease. It was pleasant
to be with Vernon once more, pleasant to be once more in my own land
among my own people.
“Well, Vernon?” I said.
“First,” he answered, “you must tell me something. You must tell me why
you left England after the death of your mother, without coming to say
good-bye to me.”
“I felt upset, broken down, as if I didn’t want to see anyone, as if I
wanted to get away and be alone among new scenes and people who were
strangers.”
“That was it?”