Part 24 (2/2)
”It must be difficult. A man whom you saw so recently, and I suppose apparently quite well.”
”Quite. Absolutely.”
Julian sat silent again and allowed the waiter to take away his plate with the untouched cutlet.
”I didn't like the man,” he began at last. ”But still I'm sorry, d.a.m.ned sorry, about this. I wanted to see him again. He was an awfully interesting fellow, Val; and, as I told you, might, I believe, in time have gained a sort of influence over me,--not like yours, of course, but he certainly had a power, a strength, about him, even a kind of fascination. He was not like other people. Ah--” and he exclaimed impatiently, ”I wish you had met him.”
”Why?”
”I scarcely know. But I should like you to have had the experience. And then, you are so intuitive about people, you might have read him. I could not. And he was a fellow worth reading, that I'm certain of. No, I won't have any mutton. I seem to have lost my appet.i.te over this.”
Valentine calmly continued his dinner, while Julian talked on about Marr rather excitedly. When they were having coffee Valentine said:
”What shall we do to-night? It is only a quarter past nine. Shall we go anywhere?”
”Oh no, I think not--wait--yes, we will.”
Julian drank his coffee off at a gulp, in a way that would have made him the despair of an epicure.
”Where shall we go, then?”
Julian answered:
”To the Euston Road. To the 'European.'”
”The 'European'!”
”Yes, Valentine; I must see Marr once more, even dead. And I want you to see him. It was he who made the strangeness in our lives. But for him these curious events of the last days would not have happened. And isn't it peculiar that he must have died just about the time you were in your trance?”
”I do not see that. The two things were totally unconnected.”
”Perhaps. I suppose so. But I must know how he died. I must see what he looks like dead. You will come with me?”
”If you wish it. But we may not be admitted.”
”I will manage that somehow. Let us go.”
Valentine got up. He showed neither definite reluctance nor excitement.
They put on their coats in the vestibule and went out into the street.
While they had been dining the weather, fine during the day, had changed, and rain was falling in sheets. They stood in the doorway while the hall-porter called a cab. Piccadilly on such a night as this looked perhaps more decisively dreary than a rain-soaked country lane, or storm-driven sand-dunes by the sea. For wet humanity, with wispy hair and swis.h.i.+ng petticoats, draggled with desire for shelter, is a piteous vision as it pa.s.ses by.
Valentine and Julian regarded it, turning up their coat collars and instinctively thrusting their hands deep into their pockets. Two soldiers pa.s.sed, pursued by a weary and tattered woman, at whom they laughingly jeered as they adjusted the cloaks over their broad shoulders. They were hurrying back to barracks, and disregarded the woman's reiterated exclamation that she would go with them, having no home. A hansom went by with the gla.s.s down, a painted face staring through it upon the yellow mud that splashed round the horse's feet. Suddenly the horse slipped and came down. The gla.s.s splintered as the painted and now screaming face was dashed through it. A wet crowd of roughs and pavement vagabonds gathered and made hoa.r.s.e remarks on the woman's dress as she was hauled out in her finery, bleeding and half fainting, her silk gown a prey to the mud, her half-naked shoulders a hostage to the wind. Two men in opera-hats, walked towards their club, discussing a divorce case, and telling funny stories through the rain. A very small, pale, and filthy boy stood with bare feet upon the kerbstone, and cried damp matches.
”How horrible London is to-night,” Julian said as he and Valentine got into their cab.
”Yes. Why add to our necessary contemplation of its horrors? Why go on this mad errand?”
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