Meantime, Clemens, with one of his sudden impulses, had conceived the notion of spending the winter in Egypt, on the Nile.  He had gone so far, within a few hours after the idea developed, as to plan the time of his departure, and to partially engage a traveling secretary, so that he might continue his dictations.  He was quite full of the idea just at the moment when the billiard table was being installed.  He had sent for a book on the subject—­the letters of Lady Duff-Gordon, whose daughter, Janet Ross, had become a dear friend in Florence during the Viviani days.  He spoke of this new purpose on the morning when we renewed the New York dictations, a month or more following the return from Dublin.  When the dictation ended he said: 

“Have you any special place to lunch to-day?”

I replied that I had not.

“Lunch here,” he said, “and we’ll try the new billiard-table.”

I said what was eminently true—­that I could not play—­that I had never played more “than a few games of pool, and those very long ago.

“No matter,” he answered; “the poorer you play, the better I shall like it.”

So I remained for luncheon and we began, November 2d, the first game ever played on the Christmas table.  We played the English game, in which caroms and pockets both count.  I had a beginner’s luck, on the whole, and I remember it as a riotous, rollicking game, the beginning of a closer understanding between us—­of a distinct epoch in our association.  When it was ended he said: 

“I’m not going to Egypt.  There was a man here yesterday afternoon who said it was bad for bronchitis, and, besides, it’s too far away from this billiard-table.”

He suggested that I come back in the evening and play some more.  I did so, and the game lasted until after midnight.  He gave me odds, of course, and my “nigger luck,” as he called it, continued.  It kept him sweating and swearing feverishly to win.  Finally, once I made a great fluke—­a carom, followed by most of the balls falling into the pockets.

“Well,” he said, “when you pick up that cue this damn table drips at every pore.”

After that the morning dictations became a secondary interest.  Like a boy, he was looking forward to the afternoon of play, and it never seemed to come quick enough to suit him.  I remained regularly for luncheon, and he was inclined to cut the courses short, that he might the sooner get up-stairs to the billiard-room.  His earlier habit of not eating in the middle of the day continued; but he would get up and dress, and walk about the dining-room in his old fashion, talking that marvelous, marvelous talk which I was always trying to remember, and with only fractional success at best.  To him it was only a method of killing time.  I remember once, when he had been discussing with great earnestness the Japanese question, he suddenly noticed that the luncheon was about ending, and he said: