The Tale of Mr. Peter Brown - Chelsea Justice | Page 2

a table, placing myself so that I should face him, and very
ostentatiously I took a newspaper out of my pocket, unfolded it, and
began to read. But through my reading I was aware of him, and I knew
that he was aware of me. At the same time I couldn't help being
touched by what I knew I should read in his face: the same hostility,
towards the world at large, and towards myself the same appeal, half
fearful, half beseeching. It was as though he said, aloud and distinctly,
"Let me talk! For God's sake let me talk it out!" And this time I was
determined that he should; yes, I was quite grim over my determination.
I was going to get at the secret that lay behind those hunted eyes.
I was in a queer mood myself; rather a cruel mood, although the
starting-point of my intention had been kind. I knew that my mood had
something of cruelty in it, because I discovered that I was purposely

dawdling over my dinner, in order to keep the man longer than
necessary on the rack. Queer, the complexities one unearths in oneself.
But probably if I had been an ordinary straightforward kind of fellow, I
should never have had the sensibility to recognise in the first instance
that the man wanted to talk to me. It's the reverse of the medal, I
suppose.
He had finished his coffee, of course, long before I had finished my
dinner; he had squeezed the last drop out of the little coffee-pot, and I
wondered with amusement whether he would have the moral courage
to remain where he was now that his ostensible pretext was gone and
that the waiter was beginning to loiter round his table as a hint that he
ought to go. Poor devil, I could see that he was growing uneasy; he
shuffled his feet, and the glances he threw at me became yet more
furtive and reproachful. Still I gave no sign; I don't know what spirit of
sarcasm and teasing possessed me. He stood it for some time, then he
shoved back his chair, reached for his hat, and stood up. It was a sort of
defiance that he was throwing at me, an ultimatum that I should either
end my cat-and-mouse game, or let him go. As he was about to pass my
table on the way out, I spoke to him.
"Care for a look at the evening paper?"
Absurd--isn't it?--that one should have to cloak one's interest in a
stranger's soul under such a convention as the offer of a paper. Why
couldn't I have said to him straight out, "Look here, what's the matter
with you?" But our affairs are not so conducted. He accepted my offer,
and stood awkwardly reading the City News, which I thought a sure
indication of his confusion, as by no stretch of fancy could I imagine
him the possessor of stocks or shares. "Sit down," I said, "while you
read."
He sat down, with a mumble of thanks, laying his old black wideawake
beside him on my table. I think he was glad of the paper, for it gave
him something to do with his hands and his eyes. I observed him, and
he must have known I was observing him. Underneath the thick,
snow-white hair the face was young, although so sunken and so sallow,
the face of a man of perhaps twenty-seven or eight, sensitive, not at all

the face of a criminal escaping from justice, in spite of that hunted look
which had been so vividly present to me during the past week. An artist,
I thought; perhaps a writer; a romantic face; not blatantly romantic; no,
but after you had delved into the eyes and traced the quiver of the
mouth you discovered the certain signs of the romantic idealist.
"I saw you here last week," he muttered suddenly.
The little restaurant was by now almost empty; many of the lights had
been turned down, and at most of the tables the chairs had been tipped
forward. Being privileged as an old and regular customer, I beckoned to
the proprietor, and in a whisper begged that I might not be disturbed, as
I had to hold a business conversation of some importance with my
companion. At the same time I poured out for the stranger a glass of
wine from my own bottle, remarking that the wine here was better than
their coffee. This seemed to unloose his tongue a little, for he
exclaimed that coffee was very bad for the nerves, especially strong,
black coffee, as he drank it; and after this short outburst relapsed again
into silence, taking refuge in the paper.
I tried him once more.
"I don't remember seeing you