the American theory gained upon me; for, though my friend told me
nothing about himself, he told me a great deal about every place
which we passed. He knew the industries of the various towns, and
the events connected with them, and the names of the people who
owned the castles and great country-houses. I had been told that
this habit of endless exposition was characteristic of the cultured
American. But, whatever was the nationality of my companion, I
enjoyed his company very much. He talked to me, not as a man to
a boy, but as an elder to a younger man; paid me the courtesy of
asking my opinion and listening to my answers; and, by all the
little arts of the practised converser, made me feel on good terms
with myself and the world. Yankee or Frenchman, my actor was a very
jolly fellow; and I only wished that he would tell me a little
about himself.

When, late in the afternoon, we passed Bletchley Station, I bethought
me that we should soon be separated, for the London and North-Western
train, though an express, was to be stopped at Harrow in order to
disgorge its load of returning boys. I began to collect my goods
and to prepare myself for the stop, when my friend said, to my
great joy, "I see you are alighting. I am going on to Euston. I
shall be in London for the next few weeks. I should very much like
to pay a visit to Harrow one day, and see your 'lions.'" This was
exactly what I wished, but had been too modest to suggest; so I
joyfully acceded to his proposal, only venturing to add that, though
we had been travelling together all day, I did not know my friend's
name. He tore a leaf out of a pocket-book, scrawled on it, in a
backward-sloping hand, "H. Aulif," and handed it to me, saying,
"I do not add an address, for I shall be moving about. But I will
write you a line very soon, and fix a day for my visit." Just then