"Is there anything in the paper?" he said, as we approached the end of our silent meal.

 

I fancied there was in his tone a slight note of exasperation².

 

"I always like to read the feuilleton on the drama," I said.

 

I folded the paper and put it down beside me.

 

"I've enjoyed my dinner," he remarked.

 

"I think we might have our coffee here, don't you?"

 

"Yes."

 

We lit our cigars. I smoked in silence. I noticed that now and then his eyes rested on me with a faint smile of amusement. I waited patiently.

 

"What have you been up to since I saw you last?" he asked at length.

 

I had not very much to say. It was a record of hard work and of little adventure; of experiments in this direction and in that; of the gradual acquisition of the knowledge of books and of men. I took care to ask Strickland nothing about his own doings. I showed not the least interest in him, and at last I was rewarded. He began to talk of himself. But with his poor gift of expression he gave but indications of what he had gone through, and I had to fill up the gaps with my own imagination. It was tantalising to get no more than hints into a character that interested me so much. It was like making one's way through a mutilated manuscript. I received the impression of a life which was a bitter struggle against every sort of difficulty; but I realised that much which would have seemed horrible to most people did not in the least affect him. Strickland was distinguished³ from most Englishmen by his perfect indifference⁴ to comfort; it did not irk him to live always in one shabby room; he had no need to be surrounded by beautiful things. I do not suppose he had ever noticed how dingy

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