“Of course it will,” I replied laughing; but a day or two later he was again embarrassed, and again told me it was money, and then he confessed to me that he was afraid at first I should not have paid all his debts, if I had known how much they were, and so he thought by telling me of them little by little, he would make sure at least of something.  This pitiful, pitiable confession depressed me on his account.  It showed practice in such petty tricks and all too little pride.  Of course it did not alter my admiration of his qualities; nor weaken in any degree my resolve to give him a fair chance.  If he could be saved, I was determined to save him.

We met at the Gare de Lyons on Sunday evening.  I found he had dined at the buffet:  there was a surprising number of empty bottles on the table; he seemed terribly depressed.

“Someone was dining with me, Frank, a friend,” he offered by way of explanation.

“Why did he not wait?  I should like to have seen him.”

“Oh, he was no one you would have cared about, Frank,” he replied.

I sat with him and took a cup of coffee, whilst waiting for the train.  He was wretchedly gloomy; scarcely spoke indeed; I could not make it out.  From time to time he sighed heavily, and I noticed that his eyes were red, as if he had been crying.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“I will tell you later, perhaps.  It is very hard; parting is like dying,” and his eyes filled with tears.

We were soon in the train running out into the night.  I was as light-hearted as could be.  At length I was free of journalism, I thought, and I was going to the South to write my Shakespeare book, and Oscar would work, too, when the conditions were pleasant.  But I could not win a single smile from him; he sat downcast, sighing hopelessly from time to time.

“What on earth’s the matter?” I cried.  “Here you are going to the sunshine, to blue skies, and the wine-tinted Mediterranean, and you’re not content.  We shall stop in a hotel near a little sun-baked valley running down to the sea.  You walk from the hotel over a carpet of pine needles, and when you get into the open, violets and anemones bloom about your feet, and the scent of rosemary and myrtle will be in your nostrils; yet instead of singing for joy the bird droops his feathers and hangs his head as if he had the ‘pip.’”

“Oh, don’t,” he cried, “don’t,” and he looked at me with tears filling his eyes; “you don’t know, Frank, what a great romantic passion is.”

“Is that what you are suffering from?”

“Yes, a great romantic passion.”

“Good God!” I laughed; “who has inspired this new devotion?”

“Don’t make fun of me, Frank, or I will not tell you; but if you will listen I will try to tell you all about it, for I think you should know, besides, I think telling it may ease my pain, so come into the cabin and listen.