“Don’t mind me,” he said.  “I’m rather—­rather unstrung to-night, and this thing gave me a jar.  To be candid, my imagination took head in the fog, and I got to fancy I was talking to myself—­”

“And pulled up to find the fancy in some way real?”

“Yes.  Something like that.”

Both were silent for a moment.  Chilcote pulled hard at his cigarette, then, remembering his obligations, he turned quickly to the other.

“Won’t you smoke?” he asked.

The stranger accepted a cigarette from the case held out to him; and as he did so the extraordinary likeness to himself struck Chilcote with added force.  Involuntarily he put out his hand and touched the other’s arm.

“It’s my nerves!” he said, in explanation.  “They make me want to feel that you are substantial.  Nerves play such beastly tricks!” He laughed awkwardly.

The other glanced up.  His expression on the moment was slightly surprised, slightly contemptuous, but he changed it instantly to conventional interest.  “I am afraid I am not an authority on nerves,” he said.

But Chilcote was preoccupied.  His thoughts had turned into another channel.

“How old are you?” he asked, suddenly.

The other did not answer immediately.  “My age?” he said at last, slowly.  “Oh, I believe I shall be thirty-six to-morrow—­to be quite accurate.”

Chilcote lifted his head quickly.

“Why do you use that tone?” he asked.  “I am six months older than you, and I only wish it was six years.  Six years nearer oblivion—­”

Again a slight incredulous contempt crossed the other’s eyes.  “Oblivion?” he said.  “Where are your ambitions?”

“They don’t exist.”

“Don’t exist?  Yet you voice your country?  I concluded that much in the fog.”

Chilcote laughed sarcastically.

“When one has voiced one’s country for six years one gets hoarse—­it’s a natural consequence.”

The other smiled.  “Ah, discontent!” he said.  “The modern canker.  But we must both be getting under way.  Good-night!  Shall we shake hands—­to prove that we are genuinely material?”

Chilcote had been standing unusually still, following the stranger’s words—­caught by his self-reliance and impressed by his personality.  Now, as he ceased to speak, he moved quickly forward, impelled by a nervous curiosity.

“Why should we just hail each other and pass—­like the proverbial ships?” he said, impulsively.  “If Nature was careless enough to let the reproduction meet the original, she must abide the consequences.”

The other laughed, but his laugh was short.  “Oh, I don’t know.  Our roads lie differently.  You would get nothing out of me, and I—­” He stopped and again laughed shortly.  “No,” he said; “I’d be content to pass, if I were you.  The unsuccessful man is seldom a profitable study.  Shall we say good-night?”