"When I am as old as he," replies the young man, coldly, shaking the ash
off his cigar, "if I ever am, which I doubt, and have knocked about the
world for as many years, and imperiled my liver in as many climates, and
sent as many Russians, and Chinamen, and Sikhs to glory as he has, I
shall think myself entitled to sit in an armchair--yes, and sleep in it
too--all day, if I feel inclined."
I do not answer, partly because I am exasperated, partly because at this
moment my eye is caught by an object in a shop-window--a traveling-bag,
with its mouth invitingly open, displaying all manner of manly
conveniences. I hastily furl my green umbrella, and step in. My squire
does not follow me. I hardly notice the fact, but suppose that he is
standing outside in the sun. However, when I reissue forth, I find that
he has disappeared. I look up the street, down the street. There is no
trace of him. I walk away, feeling a little mortified. I go into a few
more shops: I dawdle over some china. Then I turn my steps homeward.
At a narrow street-corner, in the grateful shade cast by some tall
houses, I come face to face with him again.
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