“And yet you know, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “when I first knew you, I didn’t understand you then. But I always accounted for it by the fact that you were not quite all there. Well, I don’t understand you a bit better now, although I have come now to account for it by the fact that I am not quite all there. I don’t know why I have come round towards you like I have. At first I thought you were rather less than the ordinary, and that you didn’t count at all; but now I consider you to be the finest chap I’ve ever known, and that you have got something about you that more than makes up for what you lack.” “May you not have entered upon another phase?” said William Jordan. “I don’t quite know what you mean, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson, “unless you mean that I’ve changed. At least I had that kind of thought as I sat this evening at the Alcazar. The wrestling bored me, the songs were rotten, and I didn’t think much of the ballet. And I thought the band was out of tune--all except John Dobbs. In fact, I began to wonder why I came. And then suddenly I thought of that night, old boy, when you sat at my side, and I took you round to see Hermione----” “Ah, the goddess!” exclaimed William Jordan softly. “I have often thought since,” said his friend, “that it was not right to play it on you as we did. And what Hermione said about you afterwards, old boy, rather turned me against her. But she was pretty low down, was Hermione; yes, she doesn’t dance in the ballet now-a-days. All the same she rather knocked you, old boy, didn’t she?” “I thought her to be divine,” said William Jordan simply. The two friends stayed their steps under a flickering gas-lamp in the City. The steady rain continued. The clock of a neighbouring church told the hour. “It will be a long and wet walk to Peckham, Jimmy,” said William Jordan. “It will, old boy,” said his friend; “but what do you suppose I care, now that you have given me your promise to come back? By the way, old boy, do you think it would be asking too much, as a special favour, for you to write me a line now and then just to say that you are alive?” The gaze of William Jordan grew heavy with a darkness that was veiled from his friend. “You must forgive me, Jimmy, if I don’t,” he said. “As a special favour,” pleaded his friend. “You know, old boy, I have never had a line of yours. I have always been meaning to ask you for your autograph--that is before the trouble came--and--and now the trouble has come I intend to ask you for it. Send me a line, old boy, to say you are alive.” “I cannot promise to do that,” said William Jordan, “because the strength has not yet been given to my right hand. But I do promise to return; and when I do return I shall listen for your tap upon the shutters; and then I will let you in as far as the threshold of the little room.” The friends said their last farewells as the clocks chimed the hour of two. XLII