Presently, turning about, I saw him
looking at the young lady's photograph. "Of course, now," he said, "I
have no right to keep it!" And before I could ask for another glimpse of
it, he had thrust it into the fire.
"I am sorry to be saying it just now," I observed after a while, "but I
shouldn't wonder if Miss Vernor were a charming creature."
"Go and find out," he answered, gloomily. "The coast is clear. My part
is to forget her," he presently added. "It ought not to be hard. But
don't you think," he went on suddenly, "that for a poor fellow who asked
nothing of fortune but leave to sit down in a quiet corner, it has been
rather a cruel pushing about?"
Cruel indeed, I declared, and he certainly had the right to demand a
clean page on the book of fate and a fresh start. Mr. Vernor's advice
was sound; he should amuse himself with a long journey. If it would be
any comfort to him, I would go with him on his way. Pickering assented
without enthusiasm; he had the embarrassed look of a man who, having gone
to some cost to make a good appearance in a drawing-room, should find the
door suddenly slammed in his face. We started on our journey, however,
and little by little his enthusiasm returned. He was too capable of
enjoying fine things to remain permanently irresponsive, and after a
fortnight spent among pictures and monuments and antiquities, I felt that
I was seeing him for the first time in his best and healthiest mood.
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