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?” I heard the doubt in his voice, and added— “There was another reason, too, an under-reason.” “Yes?” “That sudden death of poor Deeming, coming just after my mother’s, upset my nerves, I think. It made me feel as if—as if I had been cruel. It filled me with regret.” “Cruel! I don’t understand.” “No. How could you? But when a man’s dead, one thinks very differently about him often. And I had been suspicious of Deeming. At the end, indeed, I had been unfriendly.” “I am quite in the dark,” he said, rather coldly, I thought. I explained to him what I meant. I told him of my last meeting with Deeming, of the incident of the fox-terrier, of Deeming’s note to me, of how I had left it unanswered. He listened with a profound attention. “When I read of his death in the paper I wished I had answered his note,” I concluded. “I wished it more than I can tell you. And I regretted bitterly that the last weeks of our intercourse had been clouded by suspicion, by misunderstanding.” “Ah!” His voice still sounded cold. After a moment he said: “And you didn’t come to see me because⸺” “Well, you had been mixed up with my suspicion of Deeming, and⸺” “Now I understand. You felt a very natural longing to be away from all that recalled sadness to you, that might deepen your grief or serve to irritate your nerves.”