know these people here and I know you. You're not one of this
crowd, Clement Searle, not you. You'll go under here, sir; you'll
go under as sure as my name's Simmons."

Following this I heard a sudden clatter as of the drop of a knife
and fork. "Well, you're a delicate sort of creature, if it IS
your ugly name! I've been wandering about all day in this
accursed city, ready to cry with homesickness and heartsickness
and every possible sort of sickness, and thinking, in the absence
of anything better, of meeting you here this evening and of your
uttering some sound of cheer and comfort and giving me some
glimmer of hope. Go under? Ain't I under now? I can't do more
than get under the ground!"

Mr. Simmons's superior brightness appeared to flicker a moment in
this gust of despair, but the next it was burning steady again.
"DON'T 'cry,' Searle," I heard him say. "Remember the waiter.
I've grown Englishman enough for that. For heaven's sake don't
let's have any nerves. Nerves won't do anything for you here.
It's best to come to the point. Tell me in three words what you
expect of me."

I heard another movement, as if poor Searle had collapsed in his
chair. "Upon my word, sir, you're quite inconceivable. You never
got my letter?"

"Yes, I got your letter. I was never sorrier to get anything in
my life."

At this declaration Mr. Searle rattled out an oath, which it was