The traveller, Mr. William Chevenix, who had watched him so long, a well-
dressed and cheerful Englishman of some five-and-thirty summers, with
round eyes in a round and rosy face, now assuring himself that he would be
damned if he didn't have it out with the chap, descended the companion,
picked his way through the steerage, and approached the seated
philosopher. He saw that he was known, and immediately. Nothing escaped
Senhouse.
"How d'ye do, how d'ye do?" He held out his hand. Senhouse rose and
grasped it. The Italian took off his hat, and strolled away.
"I'm very well, thanks," he said. "Have you noticed those shores beyond
the canal? Samphire there just as we have it at home. Leagues of
samphire."
The younger man looked in the direction indicated cheerfully and blankly.
"'The samphire by the ocean's brim,'" he said lightly. "I attach no
importance to it whatever, but it's very like you to lift one into your
privacy at a moment's notice. I'm all for the formalities myself, so I
observe that I haven't seen you for years. Years! Not since--why, it must
be eighteen."
"It's precisely eight," said Senhouse, "and I've been abroad for four of
them."
His friend inspected him with candid interest.
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