re
returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a
fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit, but it served to pass
the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of
the train's departure. Release--ours, and our friend's--was not yet.

My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who was
talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next window
but one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young
lady was evidently American, and he was evidently English; otherwise I
should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her father. I
wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was giving the
very best advice; and the strong tenderness of his gaze was really
beautiful. He seemed magnetic, as he poured out his final injunctions.
I could feel something of his magnetism even where I stood. And the
magnetism, like the profile, was vaguely familiar to me. Where had I
experienced it?

In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert le Ros. But how changed
since last I saw him! That was seven or eight years ago, in the Strand.
He was then (as usual) out of an engagement, and borrowed half-a-crown.
It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was always magnetic.
And why his magnetism had never made him successful on the London stage
was always a mystery to me. He was an excellent actor, and a man of
sober habit. But, like many others of his kind, Hubert le Ros (I do
not, of course, give the actual name by which he was known) drifted
seedily away into the provinces; and I, like every one else, ceased to
remember him.

It was strange to see him, after all these years, here on the platform
of Euston, looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh
that he had put on, but also the clothes, that made him hard to
recognise. In the old days, an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as
integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his
costume was a model of rich and sombre moderation, drawing, not
calling, attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one would
have been proud to be seen off by him.

'Stand back, please.' The train was about to start, and I waved
farewell to my friend. Le Ros did not stand back. He stood clasping in
both hands the hands of the young American. 'Stand back, sir, please!'
He obeyed, but quickly darted forward again to whisper some final word.
I think there