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                                  “Don’t  you  remember  me?  Why,  I’m  here  because  of
                            something you said to me. You changed my whole life for me. I’m
                            Stephens.”
                                  I  had  not  the  least  notion  what  he  was  talking  about.  He
                            reminded me of our interview, he repeated to me what we had said,
                            and  gradually,  out  of  the  night,  a  dim  recollection  of  the  incident
                            came back to me.
                                  “I was wondering  if  I’d ever see  you again,”  he said, “I was
                            wondering if ever I’d have a chance of thanking you for all you’ve
                            done for me.”
                                  “It’s been a success then?”
                                  I  looked at  him. He was very  fat  now and bald, but his eyes
                            twinkled gaily and his fleshy, red face bore an expression of perfect
                            good  humour.  The clothes  he wore, terribly shabby  they were,  had
                            been made obviously by a Spanish tailor and his hat was the wide-
                            brimmed sombrero  of  the Spaniard. He  looked  to  me as though  he
                            knew  a  good  bottle  of  wine  when  he  saw  it.  He  had  a  dissipated,
                            though entirely sympathetic, appearance. You might have hesitated to
                            let  him remove  your appendix, but  you could not  have  imagined a
                            more delightful creature to drink a glass of wine with.
                                  “Surely you were married?” I said.
                                  “Yes. My wife didn’t like Spain, she went back to Camberwell,
                            she was more at home there.”
                                  “Oh, I’m sorry for that.”
                                  His  black  eyes  flashed  a  bacchanalian  smile.  He  really  had
                            somewhat the look of a young Silenus.
                                  “Life is full of compensations,” he murmured. The words were
                            hardly out of his mouth when a Spanish woman, no longer in her first
                            youth,  but  still  boldly  and  voluptuously  beautiful,  appeared  at  the
                            door. She spoke to him in Spanish, and I could not fail to perceive
                            that she was the mistress of the house. As he stood at the door to let
                            me out he said to me: “You told me when last I saw you that if I came
                            here I should earn just enough money to keep body and soul together,
                            but that I should lead a wonderful life. Well, I want to tell you that
                            you were right. Poor I have been and poor I shall always be, but by
                            heaven  I’ve  enjoyed  myself.  I  wouldn’t  exchange  the  life  I’ve  had
                            with that of any king in the world.”
                                                           ***
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