But it was Farrell.
"He halted at some distance, as I had halted; arrested, as I had
been arrested, at sight of the incongruous great structure,
planted here. He drew close, cast a sort of questioning glance
seaward, very deliberately drew a pair of field-glasses from a
case slung over his shoulder, and focused them on the building,
lifting them slowly.
"I had drawn back behind my window-jamb, yet so as to watch him.
As he tilted the glasses upward, I leaned out.
"He stood for a moment, or two motionless. Then his hands sank,
with the glasses clutched in them. He walked slowly away.
When he judged himself hidden by a spit of the shore--but my
window overlooked it--he broke into a run.
"I note that he is already beginning to reduce his figure.
"I returned the call that same evening. I dropped in on
him as he took his seat to dine _solus_ at the _Albion_.
The dining-room, I should tell you, was fairly full. Usual
ruck of people: sort of too-English; English you see at
_tables-d'hote_ and nowhere else in the world, with an
end-of-season preponderance of females who stay to look after
the British chaplain a little longer than he needs, or to
gratify some obscure puritan pride in seeing everybody out, or
because there's a bargain to be squeezed with the management to
the last ounce, or peradventure because they've planned a series
of cheap visits at home for our beautiful summer and one or two
of the Idle Rich have remembered to be less idle than they were
last year, and more restive.
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