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On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston, to see off an old friend who was starting for America.
Overnight, we had given him a farewell dinner, in which sadness was well mingled with festivity3. Years probably would elapse before his return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow of the future, we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to have known our guest as we were grieved to lose him; and both these emotions were made manifest. It was a perfect farewell.
And now, here we were, stiff and self-conscious on the platform; and framed in the window of the railway-carriage was the face of our friend; but it was as the face of a stranger—a stranger anxious to please, an appealing stranger, an awkward stranger. “Have you got everything?” asked one of us, breaking a silence. “Yes, everything,” said our friend, with a pleasant nod. “Everything,” he repeated, with the emphasis of an empty brain. “You’ll be able to lunch on the train,” said I, though the prophecy had already been made more than once. “Oh, yes, he said with conviction. He added that the train went straight through to Liverpool. This……