will lead you hopelessly astray.  His tread was assured, his straying, darkened eyes seemed to search the room for something.  One of his footfalls somehow sounded louder than the other—­the fault of his boots probably—­and gave a curious impression of an invisible halt in his gait.  One of his hands was rammed deep into his trousers’ pocket, the other waved suddenly above his head.  “Slam the door!” he shouted.  “I’ve been waiting for that.  I’ll show yet . . .  I’ll . . .  I’m ready for any confounded thing . . .  I’ve been dreaming of it . . .  Jove!  Get out of this.  Jove!  This is luck at last . . .  You wait.  I’ll . . .”

’He tossed his head fearlessly, and I confess that for the first and last time in our acquaintance I perceived myself unexpectedly to be thoroughly sick of him.  Why these vapourings?  He was stumping about the room flourishing his arm absurdly, and now and then feeling on his breast for the ring under his clothes.  Where was the sense of such exaltation in a man appointed to be a trading-clerk, and in a place where there was no trade—­at that?  Why hurl defiance at the universe?  This was not a proper frame of mind to approach any undertaking; an improper frame of mind not only for him, I said, but for any man.  He stood still over me.  Did I think so? he asked, by no means subdued, and with a smile in which I seemed to detect suddenly something insolent.  But then I am twenty years his senior.  Youth is insolent; it is its right—­its necessity; it has got to assert itself, and all assertion in this world of doubts is a defiance, is an insolence.  He went off into a far corner, and coming back, he, figuratively speaking, turned to rend me.  I spoke like that because I—­even I, who had been no end kind to him—­even I remembered—­remembered—­against him—­what—­what had happened.  And what about others—­the—­the—­world?  Where’s the wonder he wanted to get out, meant to get out, meant to stay out—­by heavens!  And I talked about proper frames of mind!

’"It is not I or the world who remember,” I shouted.  “It is you—­you, who remember.”

’He did not flinch, and went on with heat, “Forget everything, everybody, everybody.” . . .  His voice fell. . .  “But you,” he added.

’"Yes—­me too—­if it would help,” I said, also in a low tone.  After this we remained silent and languid for a time as if exhausted.  Then he began again, composedly, and told me that Mr. Stein had instructed him to wait for a month or so, to see whether it was possible for him to remain, before he began building a new house for himself, so as to avoid “vain expense.”  He did make use of funny expressions—­Stein did.  “Vain expense” was good. . . .  Remain?  Why! of course.  He would hang on.  Let him only get in—­that’s all; he would answer for it he would remain.  Never get out.  It was easy enough to remain.

’"Don’t be foolhardy,” I said, rendered uneasy by his threatening tone.  “If you only live long enough you will want to come back.”