“Not quite,” he replied, in his good-humored tone.
“Thank God!” I exclaimed, devoutly. “I do not like to speak disrespectfully of any British institution, but this—my faith!”
We crossed the Thames, gray and gleaming in the sunshine, and now I am at Charing Cross. Just as the train was slowing down I turned to my fellow-traveller.
“Have you been vaccinated?” I asked.
“I have,” said he, in surprise.
You see even reticence has its limits.
“I thank you for the confidence,” I replied, gravely.
As he stood up to take his umbrella from the rack he handed me back my card.
“I say,” he abruptly remarked, in a tone, I thought, of mingled severity and innuendo, “I should have this legend altered, if I were you. Good-morning.”
And with that he was gone, and my doubts had returned. He suspected something! Well, there was nothing to be done but maintain a stout heart and trust to fortune. And it takes much to drive gayety from my spirits for long. I was a fugitive, a stranger, a foreigner, but I hummed a tune cheerfully as I waited my turn for the ordeal of the custom-house. And here came one good omen. My appearance was so deceptively respectable, and my air so easy, that not a question was asked me. One brief glance at my dress-shirts and I was free to drive into the streets and lose myself in the life of London.
Lose myself, do I say? Yes, indeed, and more than myself, too. My friends, my interests, my language, my home; all these were lost as utterly as though I had dropped them overboard In the Channel. I had not time to obtain even one single introduction before I left, or further counsel than I remembered from reading English books. And I assure you it is not so easy to benefit by the experiences of Mr. Pickwick and Miss Sharp as it may seem. Stories may be true to life, but, alas! life is not so true to stories.
Fortunately, I could talk and read English well—even, I may say, fluently; also I had the spirit of my race; and finally—and, perhaps, most fortunately—I was not too old
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