Yet Again | Page 9

simultaneously repaid me the

half-crown as though it had been borrowed yesterday. He linked his
arm in mine, and walked me slowly along the platform, saying with
what pleasure he read my dramatic criticisms every Saturday.
I told him, in return, how much he was missed on the stage. `Ah, yes,'
he said, `I never act on the stage nowadays.' He laid some emphasis on
the word `stage,' and I asked him where, then, he did act. `On the
platform,' he answered. `You mean,' said I, `that you recite at concerts?'
He smiled. `This,' he whispered, striking his stick on the ground, `is the
platform I mean.' Had his mysterious prosperity unhinged him? He
looked quite sane. I begged him to be more explicit.
`I suppose,' he said presently, giving me a light for the cigar which he
had offered me, `you have been seeing a friend off?' I assented. He
asked me what I supposed he had been doing. I said that I had watched
him doing the same thing. `No,' he said gravely. `That lady was not a
friend of mine. I met her for the first time this morning, less than half
an hour ago, here,' and again he struck the platform with his stick.
I confessed that I was bewildered. He smiled. `You may,' he said, `have
heard of the Anglo-American Social Bureau?' I had not. He explained
to me that of the thousands of Americans who annually pass through
England there are many hundreds who have no English friends. In the
old days they used to bring letters of introduction. But the English are
so inhospitable that these letters are hardly worth the paper they are
written on. `Thus,' said Le Ros, `the A.A.S.B. supplies a long-felt want.
Americans are a sociable people, and most of them have plenty of
money to spend. The A.A.S.B. supplies them with English friends.
Fifty per cent. of the fees is paid over to the friends. The other fifty is
retained by the A.A.S.B. I am not, alas, a director. If I were, I should be
a very rich man indeed. I am only an employe'. But even so I do very
well. I am one of the seers-off.'
Again I asked for enlightenment. `Many Americans,' he said, `cannot
afford to keep friends in England. But they can all afford to be seen off.
The fee is only five pounds (twenty-five dollars) for a single traveller;
and eight pounds (forty dollars) for a party of two or more. They send
that in to the Bureau, giving the date of their departure, and a
description by which the seer-off can identify them on the platform.
And then--well, then they are seen off.'
`But is it worth it?' I exclaimed. `Of course it is worth it,' said Le Ros.

`It prevents them from feeling "out of it." It earns them the respect of
the guard. It saves them from being despised by their
fellow-passengers--the people who are going to be on the boat. It gives
them a footing for the whole voyage. Besides, it is a great pleasure in
itself. You saw me seeing that young lady off. Didn't you think I did it
beautifully?' `Beautifully,' I admitted. `I envied you. There was I--'
`Yes, I can imagine. There were you, shuffling from foot to foot,
staring blankly at your friend, trying to make conversation. I know.
That's how I used to be myself, before I studied, and went into the thing
professionally. I don't say I'm perfect yet. I'm still a martyr to platform
fright. A railway station is the most difficult of all places to act in, as
you have discovered for yourself.' `But,' I said with resentment, `I
wasn't trying to act. I really felt.' `So did I, my boy,' said Le Ros. `You
can't act without feeling. What's his name, the Frenchman--Diderot,
yes--said you could; but what did he know about it? Didn't you see
those tears in my eyes when the train started? I hadn't forced them. I
tell you I was moved. So were you, I dare say. But you couldn't have
pumped up a tear to prove it. You can't express your feelings. In other
words, you can't act. At any rate,' he added kindly, `not in a railway
station.' `Teach me!' I cried. He looked thoughtfully at me. `Well,' he
said at length, `the seeing-off season is practically over. Yes, I'll give
you a course. I have a good many pupils on hand already; but yes,' he
said, consulting an ornate note-book, `I could give you an hour on
Tuesdays and Fridays.'
His terms, I confess, are rather high. But I don't grudge the investment.
A MEMORY OF A MIDNIGHT EXPRESS
Often I have presentiments of evil; but, never having had one of them
fulfilled,