SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT.

CONTENTS.

PART I.

I.     A NEW-COMER
II.    WHICH CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS
III.   MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS HER LESSON
IV.    CONCERNING WARLI AND MARIE
V.     THE DISAGREEABLE MAN
VI.    THE TRAVELLER AND THE TEMPLE OF KNOWLEDGE
VII.   BERNARDINE
VIII.  THE STORY MOVES ON AT LAST
IX.    BERNARDINE PREACHES
X.     THE DISAGREEABLE MAN IS SEEN IN A NEW LIGHT
XI.   "IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE"
XII.   THE DISAGREEABLE MAN MAKES A LOAN
XIII.  A DOMESTIC SCENE
XIV.   CONCERNING THE CARETAKERS
XV.    WHICH CONTAINS NOTHING
XVI.   WHEN THE SOUL KNOWS ITS OWN REMORSE
XVII.  A RETURN TO OLD PASTURES
XVIII. A BETROTHAL
XIX.   SHIPS THAT SPEAK EACH OTHER IN PASSING
XX.    A LOVE-LETTER

PART II.

I.     THE DUSTING OF THE BOOKS
II.    BERNARDINE BEGINS HER BOOK
III.   FAILURE AND SUCCESS: A PROLOGUE
IV.    THE DISAGREEABLE MAN GIVES UP HIS FREEDOM
V.     THE BUILDING OF THE BRIDGE




SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT.


PART I.


CHAPTER I.

A NEW-COMER.


"YES, indeed," remarked one of the guests at the English table, "yes,
indeed, we start life thinking that we shall build a great cathedral,
a crowning glory to architecture, and we end by contriving a mud hut!"

"I am glad you think so well of human nature," said the Disagreeable Man,
suddenly looking up from the newspaper which he always read during meal-
time. "I should be more inclined to say that we end by being content to
dig a hole, and get into it, like the earth men."

A silence followed these words; the English community at that end of the
table was struck with astonishment at hearing the Disagreeable Man speak.
The few sentences he had spoken during the last four years at Petershof
were on record; this was decidedly the longest of them all.

"He is going to speak again," whispered beautiful Mrs. Reffold to her
neighbour.

The Disagreeable Man once more looked up from his newspaper.

"Please, pass me the Yorkshire relish," he said in his rough way to a
sitting next to him.

The spell was broken, and the conversation started afresh. But the girl
who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food
untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin; her face
looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at
Petershof only two hours before the _table-d'hôte_ bell rang. But there
did not seem to be any nervous shrinking in her manner, nor any shyness
at having to face the two hundred and fifty guests of the Kurhaus. She
seemed rather to be unaware of their presence; or, if aware of,
certainly indifferent to the scrutiny under which she was being placed.
She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagreeable Man. She
did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand
and passed him the mustard-pot.

"Is that what you asked for?" she said half dreamily; "or was it the
water-bottle?"

"You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man
placidly. "I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your
dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in
this civilized place is a vexation to you."

"I did not know they were scrutinizing," she answered; "and even if
they are, what does it matter to me? I am sure I am quite too tired to
care."

"Why have you come here?" asked the Disagreeable Man suddenly.

"Probably for the same reason as yourself," she said; "to get better
or well."

"You won't get better," he answered cruelly; "I know your type well;
you burn yourselves out quickly. And--my God--how I envy you!"

"So you have pronounced my doom," she said, looking at him intently.
Then she laughed but there was no merriment in the laughter.

"Listen," she said, as she bent nearer to him; "because you are
hopeless, it does not follow that you should try to make others
hopeless too. You have drunk deep of the cup of poison; I can see that.
To hand the cup on to others is the part of a coward."

She walked past the English table, and the Polish table, and so out of
the Kurhaus dining-hall.



CHAPTER II.

CONTAINS A FEW DETAILS.


IN an old second-hand bookshop in London, an old man sat reading
Gibbon's History of Rome. He did not put down his book when the postman
brought him a letter. He just glanced indifferently at the letter, and
impatiently at the postman. Zerviah Holme did not like to be interrupted
when he was reading Gibbon; and as he was always reading Gibbon, an
interruption was always regarded by him as an insult.

About two hours afterwards, he opened the letter, and learnt that his
niece, Bernardine, had arrived safely in Petershof, and that she
intended to get better and come home strong. He tore up the letter,
and instinctively turned to the photograph on the mantelpiece. It was
the picture of a face young and yet old, sad and yet with possibilities
of merriment, thin and drawn and almost wrinkled, and with piercing eyes
which, even in the dull lifelessness of the photograph, seemed to be
burning themselves away. Not a pleasing nor a good face; yet intensely
pathetic because of its undisguised harassment.

Zerviah looked at it for a moment.

"She has never been much to either of us," he said to himself. "And yet,
when Malvina was alive, I used to think that she was hard on Bernardine.
I believe I said so once or twice. But Malvina had her own way of
looking at things. Well, that is over now."

He then, with characteristic speed, dismissed all thoughts which did not
relate to Roman History; and the remembrance of Malvina, his wife, and
Bernardine, his niece, took up an accustomed position in the background
of his mind.

Bernardine had suffered a cheerless childhood in which dolls and toys
took no leading part. She had no affection to bestow on any doll, nor
any woolly lamb, nor apparently on any human person; unless, perhaps,
there was the possibility of a friendly inclination towards Uncle
Zerviah, who would not have understood the value of any deeper feeling,
and did not therefore call the child cold-hearted and unresponsive, as
he might well have done.

This she certainly was, judged by the standard of other children; but
then no softening influences had been at work during her tenderest
years. Aunt Malvina knew as much about sympathy as she did about the
properties of an ellipse; and even the fairies had failed to win little
Bernardine. At first they tried with loving patience what they might do
for her; they came out of their books, and danced and sang to her, and
whispered sweet stories to her, at twilight, the fairies' own time. But
she would have none of them, for all their gentle persuasion. So they
gave up trying to please her, and left her as they had found her,
loveless. What can be said of a childhood which even the fairies have
failed to touch with the warm glow of affection?

Such a little restless spirit, striving to express itself now in this
direction, now in that; yet always actuated by the same constant force,
_the desire for work_. Bernardine seemed to have no special wish to be
useful to others; she seemed just to have a natural tendency to work,
even as others have a natural tendency to play. She was always in
earnest; life for little Bernardine meant something serious.

Then the years went by.  She grew up and filled her life with many
interests and ambitions.  She was at least a worker, if nothing else;
she had always been a diligent scholar, and now she took her place as an
able teacher. She was self-reliant, and, perhaps, somewhat conceited.
But, at least, Bernardine the young woman had learnt something which
Bernardine the young child had not been able to learn: she learnt how
to smile.  It took her, about six and twenty years to learn; still,
some people take longer than that; in fact, many never learn. This is
a brief summary of Bernardine Holme's past.

Then, one day, when she was in the full swing of her many engrossing
occupations: teaching, writing articles for newspapers, attending
socialistic meetings, and taking part in political discussions--she was
essentially a modern product, this Bernardine--one day she fell ill.
She lingered in London for some time, and then she went to Petershof.


CHAPTER III.

MRS. REFFOLD LEARNS A LESSON.


PETERSHOF was a winter resort for consumptive patients, though, indeed,
many people simply needed the change of a bracing climate went there to
spend a few months; and came, away wonderfully better for the mountain
air. This was what Bernardine Holme hoped to do; she was broken down in
every way, but it was thought that a prolonged stay in Petershof might
help her back to a reasonable amount of health, or, at least, prevent
her from slipping into further decline. She had come alone, because she
had no relations except that old uncle, and no money to pay any friend
who might have been willing to come with her. But she probably cared
very little, and the morning after her arrival, she strolled out by
herself, investigating the place where she was about to spend six months.
She was dragging herself along, when she met the Disagreeable Man. She
stopped him. He was not accustomed to be stopped by any one, and he
looked rather astonished.

"You were not very cheering last night," she said to him.

"I believe I am not generally considered to be lively," he answered, as
he knocked the snow of his boot.

"Still, I am sorry I spoke to you as I did," she went on frankly. "It
was foolish of me to mind what you said."

He made no reference to his own remark, and passing on his way again,
when he turned back and walked with her.

"I have been here nearly seven years," he said and there was a ring of
sadness in his voice as he spoke, which he immediately corrected. "If
you want to know anything about the place, I can tell you. If you are
able to walk, I can show you some lovely spots, where you will not be
bothered with people. I can take you to a snow fairy-land. If you are
sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not
all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the
snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery.
If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great
mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me.
You are not too ill but that they may be a happiness to you also."

"Nothing can be much of a happiness to me," she said, half to herself,
and her lips quivered. "I have had to give up so much: all my work,
all my ambitions."

"You are not the only one who has had to do that," he said sharply.
"Why make a fuss? Things arrange themselves, and eventually we adjust
ourselves to the new arrangement. A great deal of caring and grieving,
phase one; still more caring and grieving, phase two; less caring and
grieving, phase three; no further feeling whatsoever, phase four.
Mercifully I am at phase four. You are at phase one. Make a quick
journey over the stages."

He turned and left her, and she strolled along, thinking of his words,
wondering how long it would take her to arrive at his indifference.
She had always looked upon indifference as paralysis of the soul, and
paralysis meant death, nay, was worse than death. And here was this man,
who had obviously suffered both mentally and physically, telling her
that the only sensible course was to learn not to care. How could she
learn not to care? All her life long she had studied and worked and
cultivated herself in every direction in the hope of being able to take
a high place in literature, or, in any case, to do something in life
distinctly better than what other people did. When everything was coming
near to her grasp, when there seemed a fair chance of realizing her
ambitions, she had suddenly fallen ill, broken up so entirely in every
way, that those who knew her when she was well, could scarcely recognize
her now that she was ill. The doctors spoke of an overstrained nervous
system: the pestilence of these modern days; they spoke of rest, change
of work and scene, bracing air. She might regain her vitality; she might
not. Those who had played themselves out must pay the penalty. She was
thinking of her whole history, pitying herself profoundly, coming to
the conclusion, after true human fashion, that she was the worst-used
person on earth, and that no one but herself knew what disappointed
ambitions were; she was thinking of all this, and looking profoundly
miserable and martyr-like, when some one called her by her name. She
looked round and saw one of the English ladies belonging to the Kurhaus;
Bernardine had noticed her the previous night. She seemed in capital
spirits, and had three or four admirers waiting on her very words.
She was a tall, handsome woman, dressed in a superb fur-trimmed cloak,
a woman of splendid bearing and address. Bernardine looked a
contemptible little piece of humanity beside her. Some such impression
conveyed itself to the two men who were walking with Mrs. Reffold.
They looked at the one woman, and then at the other, and smiled at each
other, as men do smile on such occasions.

"I am going to speak to this little thing," Mrs. Reffold had said to
her two companions before they came near Bernardine. "I must find out
who she is, and where she comes from. And, fancy, she has come quite
alone. I have inquired. How hopelessly out of fashion she dresses.
And what a hat!"

"I should not take the trouble to speak to her," said one of the men.
"She may fasten herself on to you. You know what a bore that is."

"Oh, I can easily snub any one if I wish," replied Mrs. Reffold,
rather disdainfully.

So she hastened up to Bernardine, and held out her well-gloved hand.

"I had not a chance of speaking to you last night, Miss Holme," she
said. "You retired so early. I hope you have rested after your journey.
You seemed quite worn out."

"Thank you," said Bernardine, looking admiringly at the beautiful woman,
and envying her, just as all plain women envy their handsome sisters.

"You are not alone, I suppose?" continued Mrs. Reffold.

"Yes, quite alone," answered Bernardine.

"But you are evidently acquainted with Mr. Allitsen, your neighbour at
table," said Mrs. Reffold; "so you will not feel quite lonely here.
It is a great advantage to have a friend at a place like this."

"I never saw him before last night," said Bernardine.

"Is it possible?" said Mrs. Reffold, in her pleasantest voice. "Then
you _have_ made a triumph of the Disagreeable Man. He very rarely deigns
to talk with any of us. He does not even appear to see us. He sits
quietly and reads. It would be interesting to hear what his conversation
is like. I should be quite amused to know what you did talk about."

"I dare say you would," said Bernardine quietly.

Then Mrs. Behold, wishing to screen her inquisitiveness, plunged into a
description of Petershof life, speaking enthusiastically about
everything, except the scenery, which she did not mention. After a time
she ventured to begin once more taking soundings. But some how or other,
those bright eyes of Bernardine, which looked at her so searchingly,
made her a little nervous, and, perhaps, a little indiscreet.

"Your father will miss you," she said tentatively.

"I should think probably not," answered Bernardine. "One is not easily
missed, you know." There was a twinkle in Bernardine's eye as she added,
"He is probably occupied with other things!"

"What is your father?" asked Mrs. Reffold, in her most coaxing tones.

"I don't know what he is now," answered Bernardine placidly. "But he
was a genius. He is dead."

Mrs. Reffold gave a slight start, for she began to feel that this
insignificant little person was making fun of her. This would never do,
and before witnesses too. So she gathered together her best resources
and said:

"Dear me, how very unfortunate: a genius too. Death is indeed cruel.
And here one sees so much of it, that unless one learns to steel one's
heart, one becomes melancholy. Ah, it is indeed sad to see all this
suffering!" (Mrs Reffold herself had quite succeeded in steeling her
heart against her own invalid husband.) She then gave an account of
several bad cases of consumption, not forgetting to mention two
instances of suicide which had lately taken place in Petershof.

"One gentleman was a Russian," she said. "Fancy coming all the way,
from Russia to this little out-of-the-world place! But people come from
the uttermost ends of the earth, though of course there are many
Londoners here.  I suppose you are from London?"

"I am not living in London now," said Bernardine cautiously.

"But you know it, without doubt," continued Mrs. Reffold. "There are
several Kensington people here. You may meet some friends: indeed in
our hotel there are two or three families from Lexham Gardens."

Bernardine smiled a little viciously; looked first at Mrs. Reffold's
two companions with an amused sort of indulgence, and then at the lady
herself She paused a moment, and then said:

"Have you asked all the questions you wish to ask? And, if so, may I
ask one of you. Where does one get the best tea?"

Mrs. Reffold gave an inward gasp, but pointed gracefully to a small
confectionery shop on the other side of the road. Mrs. Reffold did
everything gracefully.

Bernardine thanked her, crossed the road, and passed into the shop.

"Now I have taught her a lesson not to interfere with me," said
Bernardine to herself. "How beautiful she is."

Mrs. Reffold and her two companions went silently on their way.
At last the silence was broken.

"Well, I'm blessed!" said the taller of the two, lighting a cigar.

"So am I," said the other, lighting his cigar too.

"Those are precisely my own feelings," remarked Mrs. Reffold.

But she had learnt her lesson.


CHAPTER IV.

CONCERNING WÄRLI AND MARIE.


WÄRLI, the little hunchback postman, a cheery soul, came whistling up
the Kurhaus stairs, carrying with him that precious parcel of registered
letters, which gave him the position of being the most important person
in Petershof. He was a linguist, too, was Wärli, and could speak broken
English in a most fascinating way, agreeable to every one, but
intelligible only to himself. Well, he came whistling up the stairs
when he heard Marie's blithe voice humming her favourite spinning-song.

"Ei, Ei!" he said to himself; "Marie is in a good temper to-day. I will
give her a call as I pass."

He arranged his neckerchief and smoothed his curls; and when he reached
the end of the landing, he paused outside a little glass-door, and, all
unobserved, watched Marie in her pantry cleaning the candlesticks and
lamps.

Marie heard a knock, and, looking up from her work, saw Wärli.

"Good day, Wärli," she said, glancing hurriedly at a tiny broken mirror
suspended on the wall. "I suppose you have a letter for me. How
delightful!"

"Never mind about the letter just now," he said, waving his hand as
though wishing to dismiss the subject. "How nice to hear you singing
so sweetly, Marie! Dear me, in the old days at Grüsch, how often I have
heard that song of the spinning-wheels. You have forgotten the old days,
Marie, though you remember the song."

"Give me my letter, Wärli, and go about your work," said Marie,
pretending to be impatient. But all the same her eyes looked extremely
friendly. There was something very winning about the hunchback's face.

"Ah, ah! Marie," he said, shaking his curly head; "I know how it is
with you: you only like people in fine binding. They have not always
fine hearts."

"What nonsense you talk Wärli!" said Marie "There, just hand me the
oil-can. You can fill this lamp for me. Not too full, you goose! And
this one also, ah, you're letting the oil trickle down!  Why, you're
not fit for anything except carrying letters! Here, give me my letter."

"What pretty flowers," said Wärli. "Now if there is one thing I do like,
it is a flower. Can you spare me one, Marie? Put one in my button-hole,
do!"

"You are a nuisance this afternoon," said Marie, smiling and pinning a
flower on Wärli's blue coat. Just then a bell rang violently.

"Those Portuguese ladies will drive me quite mad," said Marie. "They
always ring just when I am enjoying myself?"

"When you, an enjoying yourself!" said Wärli triumphantly.

"Of course," returned Marie; "I always do enjoy cleaning the oil-lamps;
I always did!"

"Ah, I'd forgotten the oil-lamps!" said Wärli.

"And so had I!" laughed Marie. "Na, na, there goes that bell again!
Won't they be angry! Won't they scold at me! Here, Wärli, give me my
letter, and I'll be off."

"I never told you I had any letter for you," remarked Wärli. "It was
entirely your own idea. Good afternoon, Fräulein Marie."

The Portuguese ladies' bell rang again, still more passionately this
time; but Marie did not seem to hear nor care. She wished to be
revenged on that impudent postman. She went to the top of the stairs
and called after Wärli in her most coaxing tones:

"Do step down one moment; I want to show you something!"

"I must deliver the registered letters," said Wärli, with official
haughtiness. "I have already wasted too much of my time."

"Won't you waste a few more minutes on me?" pleaded Marie pathetically.
"It is not often I see you now."

Wärli came down again, looking very happy.

"I want to show you such a beautiful photograph I've had taken," said
Marie. "Ach, it is beautiful!"

"You must give one to me," said Wärli eagerly.

"Oh, I can't do that," replied Marie, as she opened the drawer and took
out a small packet. "It was a present to me from the Polish gentleman
himself. He saw me the other day here in the pantry. I was so tired,
and I had fallen asleep with my broom, just as you see me here. So he
made a photograph of me. He admires me very much. Isn't it nice? and
isn't the Polish gentleman clever? and isn't it nice to have so much
attention paid to one? Oh, there's that horrid bell again! Good
afternoon, Herr Wärli. That is all I have to say to you, thank you."

Wärli's feelings towards the Polish gentleman were not of the
friendliest that day.




CHAPTER V.

THE DISAGREEABLE MAN.


ROBERT ALLITSEN told Bernardine that she was not likely to be on
friendly terms with the English people in the Kurhaus.

"They will not care about you, and you will not care about the
foreigners. So you will thus be thrown on your own resources,
just as I was when I came."

"I cannot say that I have any resources," Bernardine answered. "I don't
feel well enough to try to do any writing, or else it would be
delightful to have the uninterrupted leisure."

So she had probably told him a little about her life and occupation;
although it was not likely that she would have given him any serious
confidences. Still, people are often surprisingly frank about
themselves, even those who pride themselves upon being the most
reticent mortals in the world.

"But now, having the leisure," she continued, "I have not the brains!"

"I never knew any writer who had," said the Disagreeable Man grimly.

"Perhaps your experience has been limited," she suggested.

"Why don't you read?" he said. "There is a good library here. It
contains all the books we don't want to read."

"I am tired of reading," Bernardine said. "I seem to have been reading
all my life. My uncle, with whom I live, keeps, a second-hand book-shop,
and ever since I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. They
have not done me much good, nor any one else either."

"No, probably not," he said. "But now that you have left off reading,
you will have a chance of learning something, if you live long enough.
It is wonderful how much one does learn when one does not read. It is
almost awful. If you don't care about reading now, why do you not
occupy yourself with cheese-mites?"

"I do not feel drawn towards cheese-mites."

"Perhaps not, at first; but all the same they form a subject which is
very engaging. Or any branch of bacteriology."

"Well, if you were to lend me your microscope, perhaps I might begin."

"I could not do that," he answered quickly. "I never lend my things."

"No, I did not suppose you would," she said. "I knew I was safe in
making the suggestion."

"You are rather quick of perception in spite of all your book reading,"
he said. "Yes, you are quite right. I am selfish. I dislike lending my
things, and I dislike spending my money except on myself. If you have
the misfortune to linger on as I do you will know that it is perfectly
legitimate to be selfish in small things, _if one has made the one
great sacrifice_."

"And what may that be?"

She asked so eagerly that he looked at her, and then saw how worn and
tired, her face was; and the words which he was intending to speak,
died on his lips.

"Look at those asses of people on toboggans," he said brusquely. "Could
you manage to enjoy yourself in that way? That might do you good."

"Yes," she said; "but it would not be any pleasure to me."

She stopped to watch the toboggans flying down the road. And the
Disagreeable Man went his own solitary way, a forlorn figure, with a
face almost expressionless, and a manner wholly impenetrable.

He had lived nearly seven years at Petershof, and, like many others was
obliged to continue staying there if he wished to continue staying in
this planet. It was not probable that he had any wish to prolong his
frail existence, but he did his duty to his mother by conserving his
life; and this feeble flame of duty and affection was the only lingering
bit of warmth in a heart frozen almost by ill health and disappointed
ambitions. The moralists tell us that suffering ennobles, and that a
right acceptation of hindrances goes towards forming a beautiful
character. But this result must largely depend on the original
character: certainly, in the case of Robert Allitsen, suffering had not
ennobled his mind, nor disappointment sweetened his disposition. His
title of "Disagreeable Man" had been fairly earned, and he hugged it to
himself with a triumphant secret satisfaction.

There were some people in Petershof who were inclined to believe certain
absurd rumours about his alleged kindness. It was said that on more than
one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof,
and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had
helped them to take their leave of life. But these were only rumours,
and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen's ordinary bearing to justify
such talk. So the foolish people who, for the sake of making themselves
peculiar, revived these unlikely fictions, were speedily ridiculed and
reduced to silence. And the Disagreeable Man remained the Disagreeable
Man, with a clean record for unamiability.

He lived a life apart from others. Most of his time was occupied in
photography, or in the use and study of the microscope, or in chemistry.
His photographs were considered to be most beautiful. Not that he showed
them specially to any one; but he generally sent a specimen of his work
to the Monthly Photograph Portfolio, and hence it was that people
learned to know of his skill. He might be seen any fine day trudging
along in company with his photographic apparatus, and a desolate dog,
who looked almost as cheerless as his chosen comrade. Neither the one
took any notice of the other; Allitsen was no more genial to the dog
than he was to the Kurhaus guests; the dog was no more demonstrative
to Robert Allitsen than he was to any one in Petershof.

Still, they were "something" to each other, that unexplainable
"something" which has to explain almost every kind of attachment.

He had no friends in Petershof, and apparently had no friends anywhere.
No one wrote to him, except his old mother; the papers which were sent
to him came from a stationer's.

He read all during meal-time. But now and again he spoke a few words
with Bernardine Holme, whose place was next to him. It never occurred
to him to say good morning, nor to give a greeting of any kind, nor to
show a courtesy. One day during lunch, however, he did take the trouble
to stoop and pick up Bernardine Holme's shawl, which had fallen for the
third time to the ground.

"I never saw a female wear a shawl more carelessly than you," he said.
"You don't seem to know anything about it."

His manner was always gruff. Every one complained of him. Every one
always had complained of him. He had never been heard to laugh. Once
or twice he had been seen to smile on occasions when people talked
confidently of recovering their health. It was a beautiful smile worthy
of a better cause. It was a smile which made one pause to wonder what
could have been the original disposition of the Disagreeable Man before
ill-health had cut him off from the affairs of active life. Was he happy
or unhappy? It was not known. He gave no sign of either the one state or
the other. He always looked very ill, but he did not seem to get worse.
He had never been known to make the faintest allusion to his own health.
He never "smoked" his thermometer in public; and this was the more
remarkable in an hotel where people would even leave off a conversation
and say: "Excuse me, Sir or Madam, I must now take my temperature. We
will resume the topic in a few minutes."

He never lent any papers or books, and he never borrowed any.