Those were his last words. I repeated them to Vernon. “I shall not forget that invitation, I assure you,” he said quietly. “And I may be able to enjoy Deeming’s hospitality sooner than he, perhaps, expects.” “Why? You’re surely not going to London yet awhile? I thought you loved your June in Rome better than any other month of the year.” “But I’ve had so many Junes in Rome that I think I shall make a change. By the way, when will you be in London?” “Oh, certainly by the last week in April.” “If I asked to travel back with you, would you object to my company?” “My dear fellow! Of course I should be delighted.” “Let us consider it a bargain, then.” He spoke decisively, and shook me by the hand as if to clinch the bargain. Nor did he forget it. The third week in April found us in Paris, and on the twenty-second of that month we stepped into the _rapide_ at the Gare du Nord, bound for England. We sat opposite to one another in the compartment, with, at first, ramparts of London papers between us; but, as we drew near to Boulogne, first Vernon’s rampart fell, and then mine. The thought of the nearness of England had got hold of us both. London ideas were taking possession of us, and, as the train rushed on towards the sea, we became restless, as if the roar of the great city were already in our ears. “Do you know,” I said, breaking our mutual silence, “that, familiar as I am with London, I can never return to it after an absence without a feeling of apprehension. It always seems to me that in its black and smoky arms it must hold some disaster which it is waiting to give to me.” “I’ve had that sensation, too,” said Vernon. “Among the cities of the world London is the monster, not merely by right of size but by other, and more mysterious rights. It affects my imagination more than any of the European capitals, but rather frightfully than agreeably. I feel that it is the city of adventure, but that every adventure there must have a fearsome ending.” “No doubt we are affected by its climate and its atmosphere.” “I dare say. Still, if anything very strange, very uncommon, should ever happen to me, I am quite sure that it will be in London.” I smiled. “My experience,” I said, “has been that in London I am perpetually expectant of gloomy and mysterious events, but that my life there is remarkably unromantic and commonplace.” “You speak almost regretfully. Do you wish for gloomy and mysterious events in your life?” “I suppose not. Yet there is a spirit hidden in one which does sigh plaintively for the strange.” “Perhaps this time it will be gratified.” Something in the tone of his voice moved me to say— “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.”