'I suppose you will rest when you get to London?' I said.
He looked at me quickly, reservedly.
I was drinking beer: I asked him wouldn't he have something. He thought
a moment, then said he would have another glass of hot milk. The
landlord came--'And bread?' he asked.
The Englishman refused. He could not eat, really. Also he was poor; he
had to husband his money. The landlord brought the milk and asked me,
when would the gentleman want to go away. So I made arrangements between
the landlord and the stranger. But the Englishman was slightly
uncomfortable at my intervention. He did not like me to know what he
would have for breakfast.
I could feel so well the machine that had him in its grip. He slaved for
a year, mechanically, in London, riding in the Tube, working in the
office. Then for a fortnight he was let free. So he rushed to
Switzerland, with a tour planned out, and with just enough money to see
him through, and to buy presents at Interlaken: bits of the edelweiss
pottery: I could see him going home with them.
So he arrived, and with amazing, pathetic courage set forth on foot in a
strange land, to face strange landlords, with no language but English at
his command, and his purse definitely limited.
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