Stanton was a friend. I really liked him.

"Hello," said Stanton one bright morning.

"Good-bye," said I. I wasn't in the mood to talk. Although he was a pleasant enough chap, I thought he looked a little green that day. I wished he would leave me to my private musings.

"What say you?" he asked, cunningly.

I ignorned him and walked to the market. He followed me, descretely. I noticed, but said nothing.

At lunch, later that day, I saw Stanton looking at me over the top of his newspaper. He sat three tables away, pretending to munch on a chocolate biscuit.

"I can see you there," said I.

"It is not me," he said, hiding behind his paper.

"I can see that it is."

"You are mistaken."

"Nay," said I. "I know you, Stanton."

He said nothing, but continued to hide his face. I sighed. I could tell it was going to be a long afternoon.