My own nick-name was "Young Ulysses."
I liked it.
But chaff or no chaff they would have been surprised to see me
leave them for the burly and sympathetic Mills. I was ready to
drop any easy company of equals to approach that interesting man
with every mental deference. It was not precisely because of that
shipwreck. He attracted and interested me the more because he was
not to be seen. The fear that he might have departed suddenly for
England--(or for Spain)--caused me a sort of ridiculous depression
as though I had missed a unique opportunity. And it was a joyful
reaction which emboldened me to signal to him with a raised arm
across that cafe.
I was abashed immediately afterwards, when I saw him advance
towards my table with his friend. The latter was eminently
elegant. He was exactly like one of those figures one can see of a
fine May evening in the neighbourhood of the Opera-house in Paris.
Very Parisian indeed. And yet he struck me as not so perfectly
French as he ought to have been, as if one's nationality were an
accomplishment with varying degrees of excellence. As to Mills, he
was perfectly insular. There could be no doubt about him. They
were both smiling faintly at me.
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