"Don't be hard on me," he pleaded. "I will try to think of it as you
do. Make some little concession on your side. I want to see how I get
through the night. We will return to what I said to you on board the
steamboat to-morrow morning. Is it agreed?"

It was agreed, of course. There was a door of communication between our
bedrooms. At his suggestion it was left open. "If I find I can't sleep,"
he explained, "I want to feel assured that you can hear me if I call
to you."

Three times in the night I woke, and, seeing the light burning in his
room, looked in at him. He always carried some of his books with him
when he traveled. On each occasion when I entered the room, he was
reading quietly. "I suppose I forestalled my night's sleep on the
railway," he said. "It doesn't matter; I am content. Something that I
was afraid of has not happened. I am used to wakeful nights. Go back to
bed, and don't be uneasy about me."

The next morning the deferred explanation was put off again.

"Do you mind waiting a little longer?" he asked.

"Not if you particularly wish it."

"Will you do me another favor? You know that I don't like London. The
noise in the streets is distracting. Besides, I may tell you I have a
sort of distrust of noise, since--" He stopped, with an appearance of
confusion.

"Since I found you looking into the engine-room?" I asked.