His cold counsellor was in the act of choosing a soft chop from the dish--an act accompanied by a great deal of prying and poking with that gentleman’s own fork. My disillusioned compatriot had pushed away his plate; he sat with his elbows on the table, gloomily nursing his head with his hands. His companion watched him and then seemed to wonder--to do Mr. Simmons justice--how he could least ungracefully give him up. “I say, Searle,”--and for my benefit, I think, taking me for a native ingenuous enough to be dazzled by his wit, he lifted his voice a little and gave it an ironical ring--“in this country it’s the inestimable privilege of a loyal citizen, under whatsoever stress of pleasure or of pain, to make a point of eating his dinner.” Mr. Searle gave his plate another push. “Anything may happen now. I don’t care a straw.” “You ought to care. Have another chop and you _will_ care. Have some better tipple. Take my advice!” Mr. Simmons went on. My friend--I adopt that name for him--gazed from between his two hands coldly before him. “I’ve had enough of your advice.” “A little more,” said Simmons mildly; “I shan’t trouble you again. What do you mean to do?” “Nothing.” “Oh come!” “Nothing, nothing, nothing!” “Nothing but starve. How about meeting expenses?” “Why do you ask?” said my friend. “You don’t care.” “My dear fellow, if you want to make me offer you twenty pounds you set most clumsily about it. You said just now I don’t know you,” Mr. Simmons went on. “Possibly. Come back with me then,” he said kindly enough, “and let’s improve our acquaintance.” “I won’t go back. I shall never go back.” “Never?” “Never.” Mr. Simmons thought it shrewdly over. “Well, you _are_ sick!” he exclaimed presently. “All I can say is that if you’re working out a plan for cold poison, or for any other act of desperation, you had better give it right up. You can’t get a dose of the commonest kind of cold poison for nothing, you know. Look here, Searle”--and the worthy man made what struck me as a very decent appeal. “If you’ll consent to return home with me by the steamer of the twenty-third I’ll pay your passage down. More than that, I’ll pay for your beer.” My poor gentleman met it. “I believe I never made up my mind to anything before, but I think it’s made up now. I shall stay here till I take my departure for a newer world than any patched-up newness of ours. It’s an odd feeling--I rather like it! What should I do at home?” “You said just now you were homesick.”