“可这值得吗？”我不禁叫了起来。“当然啦，”勒·罗斯回答道。“这不至于让他们自觉是‘他乡客’。列车员会因此敬重他们，而其他乘客也不会瞧不起他们——他们不久就要一同登上轮船的。这能为他们赢得整个航行中的地位。再说，事情本身就很有意思。你刚才看到了我送那位女郎吧。不觉得我身手不错吗？”“的确不凡，”我承认道。“我真羡慕你。你看看我站在那儿——”“是的，我能想象。你在那儿，从头到脚哪都不对劲，呆呆地望着你的朋友，搜肠刮肚地找着话题。我完全理解。以前我也是这样的，只不过后来专门研习，干起了这行，才表现得像模像样起来。我现在的技术还没有登峰造极，登上站台后不免总有些怯场。这火车站的戏可最难演，这点你一定也有切身体会。”“可是，”我有些生气了，“我没有演戏，我可是在真心实意地感觉——”“我也是的，伙计，”勒·罗斯又说，“没有真情实感是演不了戏的。那人叫什么来着，那个法国人——狄德罗，对了——他说过可以，可他都懂得些什么？你没看见火车开时我眼睛里涌出的泪水吗？告诉你吧，我确确实实受了感动，我的眼泪不是硬挤出来的。我敢说刚才你也一样，只不过你做不到用眼泪来证明你的感动罢了。你不会表达你的感情，也就是说，你演不了戏。退一步说，”他说得稍微委婉些，“至少你在火车站演不了戏。”“那请赐教！”我放开了嗓门请求。他定定地看着我，斟酌片刻，终于说“好”，答应了下来，“实际上送行的旺季也快过去了。我可以给你上几堂课。目前我的门下子弟还真不少，不过还是这样吧，”说着，他查了查他那漂亮的记事簿，“定为每周四和每周五，一次一小时。”
他开出的学费，坦白说，实在是不低的。但既然是学点本领，我也就不会嫌贵。
I am not good at it. To do it well seems to me one of the most difficult things in the world， and probably seems so to you， too.
To see a friend off from Waterloo to Vauxhall were easy enough. But we are never called on to perform that small feat. It is only when a friend is going on a longish journey， and will be absent for a languish time， that we turn up at the railway station. The dearer the friend and the longer the journey， and the longer the likely absence， the earlier do we turn up， and the more lamentably do we fail. Our failure is in exact ratio to the seriousness of the occasion， and to the depth of our feeling.
In a room， or even on a doorstep， we can make the farewell quite worthily. We can express in our faces the genuine sorrow we feel. Nor do words fail us. There is no awkwardness， no restraint， on either side. The thread of our intimacy has not been snapped. The leave-taking is an ideal one. Why not， then， leave the leave-taking at that？ Always， departing friends implore us not to bother to come to the railway station next morning. Always， we are deaf to these entreaties， knowing them to be not quite sincere. The departing friends would think it very odd of us if we took them at their word. Besides， they really do want to see us again. And that wish is heartily reciprocated. We duly turn up. And then， oh then， what a gulf yawns！ We stretch our arms vainly across it. We have utterly lost touch. We have nothing at all to say. We gaze at each other as dumb animals gaze at human beings. We “make conversation”—and such conversation！ We know that these friends are the friends from whom we parted overnight. They know that we have not altered. Yet， on the surface， everything is different； and the tension is such that we only long for the guard to blow his whistle and put an end to the farce.
On a cold grey morning of last week I duly turned up at Euston， to see off an old friend who was starting for America.
Overnight， we had given him a farewell dinner， in which sadness was well mingled with festivity. Years probably would elapse before his return. Some of us might never see him again. Not ignoring the shadow of the future， we gaily celebrated the past. We were as thankful to have known our guest as we were grieved to lose him； and both these emotions were made manifest. It was a perfect farewell.
And now， here we were， stiff and self-conscious on the platform； and framed in the window of the railway-carriage was the face of our friend； but it was as the face of a stranger—a stranger anxious to please， an appealing stranger， an awkward stranger. “Have you got everything？” asked one of us， breaking a silence. “Yes， everything， ” aid our friend， with a pleasant nod. “Everything，” he repeated， with the emphasis of an empty brain. “You’ ll be able to lunch on the train， ” said I， though the prophecy had already been made more than once. “Oh， yes，” he said with conviction. He added that the train went straight through to Liverpool. This fact seemed to strike us as rather odd. We exchanged glances. “Doesn’t it stop at Crewe？” asked one of us. “No，” said our friend， briefly. He seemed almost disagreeable. There was along pause. One of us， with a nod and a forced smile at the traveler， said “Well！” The nod， the smile and the unmeaning monosyllable， were returned conscientiously. Another pause was broken by one of us with a fit of coughing. It was an obviously assumed fit， but it served to pass the time. The bustle of the platform was unabated. There was no sign of the train’s departure. Release—ours， and our friend’s—was not yet.
My wandering eye alighted on a rather portly middle-aged man who was talking earnestly from the platform to a young lady at the next window but one to ours. His fine profile was vaguely familiar to me. The young lady was evidently American， and he was evidently English； otherwise I should have guessed from his impressive air that he was her father. I wished I could hear what he was saying. I was sure he was giving the very best advice； and the strong tenderness of his gaze was really beautiful. He seemed magnetic， as he poured out his final injunctions. I could feel something of his magnetism even where I stood. And the magnetism， like the profile， was vaguely familiar to me. Where had I experienced it？
In a flash I remembered. The man was Hubert Le Ros. But how changed since last I saw him！ That was seven or eight years ago， in the Strand. He was then(as usual)out of an engagement， and borrowed half-a-crown. It seemed a privilege to lend anything to him. He was always magnetic. And why his magnetism had never made him successful on the London stage was always a mystery to me. He was an excellent actor， and a man of sober habit. But， like many others of his kind， Hubert Le Ros (I do not， of course， give the actual name by which he was known) drifted speedily away into the provinces； and I， like every one else， ceased to remember him.
It was strange to see him， after all these years， here on the platform of Euston， looking so prosperous and solid. It was not only the flesh that he had put on， but also the clothes， that made him hard to recognize. In the old days， an imitation fur coat had seemed to be as integral a part of him as were his ill-shorn lantern jaws. But now his costume was a model of rich and somber moderation， drawing， not calling， attention to itself. He looked like a banker. Any one could have been proud to be seen off by him.