Moreover, when I
plagued him too much with Herbert Spencer, he had a way of
retaliating, and would foist upon me his favourite authors. He was
never a worshipper of any one writer, but always had at least a
dozen prophets in whose praise he was enthusiastic.
Well, on this Christmas Eve, we had been to see dear old Ravenscroft
and his grand-daughter, and we were walking back through the quiet
precincts of the Temple, when he said abruptly:
"I have decided to go back to Bath to-morrow."
"Have you had a worse account?" I asked, much startled at this
sudden announcement.
"No," he replied, "but the one I had a week ago was far from good if
you remember, and I have a feeling that I ought to be there."
At that moment we emerged into the confusion of Fleet Street; but
when we had crossed the road I began to remonstrate with him, and
argued the folly of the idea all the way down Chancery Lane.
However, there was no shaking his purpose; Christmas and its
associations had made his life in town no longer possible for him.
"I must at any rate try it again and see how it works," he said.
And all I could do was to persuade him to leave the bulk of his
possessions in London, "in case," as he remarked, "the Major would
not have him.
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