f our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking
is an ideal one. Why not, then, leave the leave-taking at that? Always,
departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway
station next morning. Always, we are deaf to these entreaties, knowing
them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very
odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides, they really do want
to see us again. And that wish is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn
up. And then, oh then, what a gulf yawns! We stretch our arms vainly
across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to say.
We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We 'make
conversation'--and such conversation! We know that these are the
friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not
altered. Yet, on the surface, everything is different; and the tension
is such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an
end to the farce.

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 festivity. 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 evident. 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 this 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 fact seemed to strike us as rather odd. We
exchanged glances. 'Doesn't it stop at Crewe?' asked one of us. 'No,'
said our friend, briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was a
long pause. One of us, with a nod and a forced smile at the traveller,
said 'Well!' The nod, the smile, and the unmeaning monosyllable, we