me.

"Seen Jimmy Pethel?" he asked. "He was asking for you. Wants to
see you particularly. He's in the baccarat-room, punting, winning hand
over fist, OF course. Said he'd seldom met a man he liked more
than you. Great character, what?"

One is always glad to be liked, and I pleaded guilty to a moment's
gratification at the announcement that Pethel liked me. But I did not go
and seek him in the baccarat-room. A great character assuredly he was,
but of a kind with which (I say it at the risk of seeming priggish) I prefer
not to associate.

Why he had particularly wanted to see me was made clear in a note
sent by him to my room early next morning. He wondered if I could be
induced to join them in their little tour. He hoped I wouldn't think it
great cheek, his asking me. He thought it might rather amuse me to
come. It would be a very great pleasure to his wife. He hoped I wouldn't
say no. Would I send a line by bearer? They would be starting at three
o'clock. He was mine sincerely.

It was not too late to tackle him even now. Should I go round to his
hotel? I hesitated and--well, I told you at the outset that my last meeting
with him was on the morrow of my first. I forget what I wrote to him,
but am sure that the excuse I made for myself was a good and graceful
one, and that I sent my kindest regards to Mrs. Pethel. She had not (I am
sure of that, too) authorized her husband to say she would like me to
come with them. Else would not the thought of her, the pity of her, have
haunted me, as it did for a very long time. I do not know whether she is
still alive. No mention is made of her in the obituary notice which awoke