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Updated: May 28, 2025
She would arrive in Calcutta the day before he left. Whether it was chance or intention on her part I never knew; as likely as not the former, for there is a fatalism in this world shaping our ends. I heard no more from him, I hardly expected to do so, but three months later a mutual acquaintance stopped me on the Club steps. "Have you heard the news," he said, "about young Harjohn?"
Between a struggling journalist of one-and-thirty, and an M.D. of twenty-five, with a brilliant record behind him, and a career of exceptional promise before him, a close friendship is however permissible. My introduction to Cyril Harjohn was through the Rev. Charles Fauerberg. "Our young friend," said the Rev. Mr.
The process is profitable to the trainer, but painful to the goose. Young Harjohn and myself left "Alpha House" at the end of the same term; he bound for Brasenose, I for Bloomsbury.
Nature had wasted him, putting him into this nineteenth century of ours. Her victories are accomplished. Her army of heroes, the few sung, the many forgotten, is disbanded. The long peace won by their blood and pain is settled on the land. She had fashioned Cyril Harjohn for one of her soldiers.
She generally talked to me without looking at me, nodding and smiling meanwhile to people around. I have met many women equally ill-mannered, and without her excuse. For a moment, however, she turned her eyes to mine. "Where's your friend, Mr. Harjohn?" she asked. "I thought you were inseparables." I looked at her in astonishment. "He is dining out to-night," I replied.
He promised me to go away by the very first train the next morning, and to travel for some four or five months, and I undertook to make all the necessary explanations for him. We both felt better for our talk, and when I wished him good-night at his door, it was the real Cyril Harjohn whose hand I gripped the real Cyril, because the best that is in a man is his real self.
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