"It seems only the other day that we were here."

"Those were great days."

"I wish we could have them again."

"Ah," he said, laughing his hard laugh, half a cough,

"Nature brings not back the mastodon,
Nor we those times."

Presently he told me that he had been writing poetry. He handed me
a type-written copy of a ballad, and asked me what I thought of
it. I told him that I felt the want of an explanatory stanza near
the beginning. "Yes," he said; "But I can't take your advice,
because then it would not be quite my own." He told me the wild
picturesque story (of a murder in Connaught) which had inspired
the ballad. His relish of the savagery made me feel that he was a
dying man clutching at life, and clutching most wildly at violent
life, as the sick man does. We went out shortly afterwards, and
got into a cab, and drove to the Gourmets, and ate our last meal
together. He was going to the theatre after dinner; I had to go
out of town. After dinner we got into another cab. He said he
would give me a lift towards my station. We drove together along
the Strand, talking of the great times we would have and of the
jolly times we had had. None of our many talks together was
happier than the last. I felt in my heart as we drove that I
should never see him again. Our last talk together was to be a
happy one.