“Yes, it’s me. And you’re looking just as young as ever. I recognized you at once. And look here, Punter, if you want to do me a service, just spread the news about Cambridge. If I’ve got to go through an Ancient Mariner or Wandering Jew explanation every time I meet anyone, it’ll eventually get on my nerves.” “I’m sure every one will rejoice to have you back, sir,” said the gyp. “Punter’s bringing my lunch. I hope you’ll stay and share it with me,” said Sheepshanks politely. “Delighted,” said Baltazar, and the old man having retired, he went on with his tale. He continued it over lunch in the next room, a homelier chamber, where Sheepshanks kept his choice books and his two or three good Italian pictures and a few ivories and photographs of nephews and nieces. It was during the meal that he noticed for the first time a lack of effusiveness on the part of his host. Not that he had expected the prim Sheepshanks to throw his arms about him and dance with joy; but he had hoped for more genial signs of welcome. After all, he reflected, he had let the college down very badly; possibly he was still unforgiven. Well, if that was so, he would have to earn forgiveness. In his tale he had reached the first visit to London. “I was out of my element, as you perceive,” said he, “and then something happened which made me decide suddenly to go into seclusion for two or three years. Real seclusion. I don’t do things by halves. In some remote spot where not a whisper of the outer world could ever reach me.” “But what kind of thing could have happened to cause you to take such an extraordinary step?” asked Sheepshanks. Thought Baltazar: “If I tell him the real reason, he’ll turn into a pillar of frozen don.” Besides, he had not the faintest intention of opening his soul to Sheepshanks, even though the latter should have enacted the part of the father of the Prodigal Son. He waved the question aside. “Nothing of any importance. Just one of the idiot trifles that always seem to arise and deflect my course through life. The main point is that I found the place I wanted, and went there with Quong Ho.” Luncheon had been cleared away and he had finished a couple of pipes before he came to the end of his narrative. “So now you see my position,” said he. “I think I do,” replied Sheepshanks. “My whole life-work has gone—except that part of it which exists in the cultivated brain of my remarkable young Chinaman. There seems to be no place for me in London, where everybody’s fitted into the war, where I’m simply dazed and unwanted. So I’ve come here—if only to find something left of my old life to attach myself to.” “I’m afraid there’s not very much to be done in Cambridge,” said Sheepshanks. “It’s no longer a university, but a military camp.” “But at any rate,” said Baltazar, “I can find here a few human beings I know who might put me in the way of actual things—help me on my course.” “That’s quite possible,” said Sheepshanks.