me for the first time, twisting the cord of his eyeglass with his finger
and thumb in a fastidious way, and I thought his glance was to dissipate
some doubt he had that he ought to be speaking to me at all. He dropped
the cord suddenly as if letting go his reserve, and said slyly, with a
grave smile: "Perhaps the romantic think the unknown is worth looking
into because it may be better than what they know. At Tabacol I used to
think the unknown country beyond it looked even duller than usual. There
was a forest, a river, a silence, and it was either day or night. That
was all. If the voice of Nature is the voice of God. . . ."

The landlord was observing in surprise this conversational excursion by
his old friend, as if it were altogether new to him. He laughed aloud,
and, putting a consoling hand on his friend's shoulder as he rose, he
told us he must leave us for a few minutes, for he had business. "Look
more cheerful before I get back, Doctor."

The doctor chuckled, and stretched across to give his gloves a more
satisfactory position on his hat. "I don't understand what it can be
that attracts people to such a place. Young men, maybe yourself even,
wish to go there. Isn't that so? Yes. I've met such men in such
places. Then they did not give me the impression that they were
satisfied with their romance. Impossible, of course. Romance is never
in the place unless we put it there, and who would put even a sentimental
dream into such a hole as Tabacol? Tropical squalor. Broken people!
I've never seen romance in such a place, and don't expect to. . . ."

Several cabs, on their way to a ship outward bound, made an increasing
noise in the night, rattled by on the cobbles outside, their occupants
roaring a sentimental chorus, and drowned what the doctor was saying.