“No, no,” said the latter; “come in here.” He led the way back into his room, and struck a match to light the candles on his chimney. Their dim rays fell upon the disorder his packing had left. “You must excuse the look of things,” he said. “The fact is, I’m just going away. I’m going to Rome at seven o’clock.”
“Isn’t this rather sudden?” asked the minister, with less excitement than the fact might perhaps have been expected to create in a friend. “I thought you intended to pass the winter in Florence.”
“Yes, I did—sit down, please—but I find myself obliged to cut my stay short. Won’t you take off your coat?” he asked, taking off his own.
“Thank you; I’ve formed the habit of keeping it on indoors,” said Mr. Waters. “And I oughtn’t to stay long, if you’re to be off so soon.”
Colville gave a very uncomfortable laugh. “Why, the fact is, I’m not off so very soon unless you help me.”
“Ah?” returned the old gentleman, with polite interest.
“Yes, I find myself in the absurd position of a man who has reckoned without his host. I have made all my plans for going, and have had my hotel bill sent to me in pursuance of that idea, and now I discover that I not only haven’t money enough to pay it and get to Rome, but I haven’t much more than half enough to pay it. I have credit galore,” he said, trying to give the situation a touch of liveliness, “but the bank is shut.”
Mr. Waters listened to the statement with a silence concerning which Colville was obliged to form his conjectures. “That is unfortunate,” he said sympathetically, but not encouragingly.
Colville pushed on desperately. “It is, unless you can help me, Mr. Waters. I want you to lend me fifty dollars for as many hours.”
Mr. Waters shook his head with a compassionate smile. “I haven’t fifty francs in cash. You are welcome to what there is. I’m very forgetful about money matters, and haven’t been to the bankers.”
“Oh, don’t excuse yourself to me, unless you wish to embitter my shame. I’m obliged to you for offering to share your destitution with me. I must try to run my face with the landlord,” said Colville.
“Oh no,” said Mr. Waters gently. “Is there such haste as all that?”
“Yes, I must go at once.”
“I don’t like to have you apply to a stranger,” said the old man, with fatherly kindness. “Can’t you remain over till Monday? I had a little excursion to propose.”
“No, I can’t possibly stay; I must go tonight,” cried Colville.
The minister rose. “Then I really mustn’t detain you, I suppose. Goodbye.” He offered his hand. Colville took it, but could not let it go at once. “I would like extremely to tell you why I’m leaving Florence in such haste. But I don’t see what good it would do, for I don’t want you to persuade me to stay.”
The old gentleman looked at him with friendly interest.
“The fact is,” Colville proceeded, as if he had been encouraged to do so, “I have had the misfortune—yes, I’m afraid I’ve had the fault—to make myself very displeasing to Mrs. Bowen, and in such a way that the very least I can do is to take myself off as far and as soon as I conveniently can.”
“Yes?” said Mr. Waters, with the cheerful note of incredulity in his voice with which one is apt to respond to others’ confession of extremity. “Is it so bad as that? I’ve just seen Mrs. Bowen, and she told me you were going.”
“Oh,” said Colville, with disagreeable sensation, “perhaps she told you why I was going.”
“No,” answered Mr. Waters; “she didn’t do that.” Colville imagined a consciousness in him, which perhaps did not exist. “She didn’t allude to the subject further than to state the fact, when I mentioned that I was coming to see you.”
Colville had dropped his hand. “She was very forbearing,” he said, with bitterness that might well have been incomprehensible to Mr. Waters upon any theory but one.
“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you are precipitate; perhaps you have mistaken; perhaps you have been hasty. These things are often the result of impulse in women. I have often wondered how they could make up their minds; I believe they certainly ought to be allowed to change them at least once.”
Colville turned very red. “What in the world do you mean? Do you imagine that I have been offering myself to Mrs. Bowen?”
“Wasn’t it that which you wished to—which you said you would like to tell me?”
Colville was suddenly silent, on the verge of a self-derisive laugh. When he spoke, he said gently: “No; it wasn’t that. I never thought of offering myself to her. We have always been very good friends. But now I’m afraid we can’t be friends any more—at least we can’t be acquaintances.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mr. Waters. He waited a while as if for Colville to say more, but the latter remained silent, and the old man gave his hand again in farewell. “I must really be going. I hope you won’t think me intrusive in my mistaken conjecture?”
“Oh no.”
“It was what I supposed you had been telling me—”
“I understand. You mustn’t be troubled,” said Colville, though he had to own to himself that it seemed superfluous to make this request of Mr. Waters, who was taking the affair with all the serenity of age concerning matters of sentiment. “I wish you were going to Rome with me,” he added, to disembarrass the moment of parting.
“Thank you. But I shall not go to Rome for some years. Shall you come back on your way in the spring?”
“No, I shall not come to Florence again,” said Colville sadly.
“Ah, I’m sorry. Goodbye, my dear young friend. It’s been a great pleasure to know you.” Colville walked down to the door of the hotel with his visitor and parted
