me, and that the smallest response on
my part would have encouraged him to do so. Why hadn't I given the
response? A smile would have sufficed; a smile wasn't much to demand
by one human being of another. I thought it very pitiable that the
conventions of our social system should persuade one to withhold so
small a thing from a fellow-creature who, perhaps, stood in need of it.
That smile, which I might have given, but had withheld, became for me
a sort of symbol. I grew superstitious about it; built up around it all
kinds of extravagant ideas; pictured to myself the splash of a body into
the river; and then, recovering my sense of proportion, told myself that
one really couldn't go about London smiling at people. Yet I didn't get
the man's face out of my head. It was not only the white hair that
had made an impression on my mind, but the unhappy eyes, the timidly
beseeching look. The man was lonely, I was quite sure of that; utterly
lonely. And I had refused a smile.

I don't know whether to say with more pride than shame, or more shame
than pride, that I went back to the restaurant a week later. I had
been kept late at my work, and there were few diners; but he was there,
sitting at the same table, hunched up as before over a cup of coffee.
Did the man live on coffee? He was thin enough, in all conscience,
rather like a long, sallow bird, with a snowy crest. And he had no
occupation, no book to read; nothing better to do than to bend his long
curves over the little table and to stab at the sugar in his coffee with
his spoon. He glanced up when I came in, casually, at the small stir I
made; then by his suddenly startled look I saw that he had recognised
me. I didn't nod to him, but I returned his look so steadily that it
amounted to a greeting. You know those moments, when understanding
flickers between people? Well, that was one of those moments.

I sat down at a table, placing myself so that I should face him, and
very ostentatiously I took a newspaper out of my pocket, unfolded it,
and began to read. But through my reading I was aware of him, and I knew
that he was aware of me. At the same time I couldn't help being touched
by what I knew I should read in his face: the same hostility, towards
the world at large, and towards myself the same appeal, half fearful,
half beseeching. It was as though he said, aloud and distinctly, "Let me
talk! For God's sake let me talk it out!" And this time I was determined
that he sh