He arrived drenched to the skin,
chuckling hugely at the idea of having come down on a visit to a
houseboat in such weather.
Under his warming influence, the hard lines on our faces thawed, and by
supper time we were, as all Englishmen and women who wish to enjoy life
should be, independent of the weather.
Later on, as if disheartened by our indifference, the rain ceased, and we
took our chairs out on the deck, and sat watching the lightning, which
still played incessantly. Then, not unnaturally, the talk drifted into a
sombre channel, and we began recounting stories, dealing with the gloomy
and mysterious side of life.
Some of these were worth remembering, and some were not. The one that
left the strongest impression on my mind was a tale that Jephson told us.
I had been relating a somewhat curious experience of my own. I met a man
in the Strand one day that I knew very well, as I thought, though I had
not seen him for years. We walked together to Charing Cross, and there
we shook hands and parted. Next morning, I spoke of this meeting to a
mutual friend, and then I learnt, for the first time, that the man had
died six months before.
The natural inference was that I had mistaken one man for another, an
error that, not having a good memory for faces, I frequently fall into.
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