'Oh yes.' He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it. 'She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need.'
'I should say so too--if you were going to rest. But if you have to set to work at once it seems to me very doubtful.'
'Never mind. For Heaven's sake don't discourage me! If this fails I think--upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself.'
'Pooh!' exclaimed Biffen, gently. 'With a wife like yours?'
'Just because of that.'
'No, no; there'll be some way out of it. By-the-bye, I passed Mrs Reardon this morning, but she didn't see me. It was in Tottenham Court Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance to stop and speak.'
'In Tottenham Court Road?'
That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind involuntarily played this trick.
'I only saw them just as they were passing,' pursued Biffen. 'Oh, I knew I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to be married?'
Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.
'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him up to-night, and he'd let me know all about it. Let's go together, shall we?'
'I don't feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I'll walk with you, and go on home.'
'No, no; come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little.--But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you won't care to join?'
He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper.
'Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at Mr Bailey's--that isn't his real name, of course. He assures me it comes from a large hotel where his wife's sister is a kitchen-maid, and that it's perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn't care to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.'
'I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?'
'I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they have there, too. I'll give you a supper of them some night before you go.'
Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.
He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the fare seem more substantial.
'Is it very cold out?' he asked, rising from the table. 'Need Iput my overcoat on?'
This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a door-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the realist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth called diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the other articles of his attire.
Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it and drew it on with a caution which probably had reference to starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic line which had come into his head a propos of nothing obvious.
'Go out,' he said, 'and then I'll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second step down, as usual.'
They issued into Clipstone Street, turned northward, crossed Euston Road, and came into Albany Street, where, in a house of decent exterior, Mr Whelpdale had his present abode. A girl who opened the door requested them to walk up to the topmost storey.
A cheery voice called to them from within the room at which they knocked. This lodging spoke more distinctly of civilisation than that inhabited by Biffen; it contained the minimum supply of furniture needed to give it somewhat the appearance of a study, but the articles were in good condition. One end of the room was concealed by a chintz curtain; scrutiny would have discovered behind the draping the essential equipments of a bedchamber.
Mr Whelpdale sat by the fire, smoking a cigar. He was a plain-featured but graceful and refined-looking man of thirty, with wavy chestnut hair and a trimmed beard which became him well. At present he wore a dressing-gown and was without collar.
'Welcome, gents both!' he cried facetiously. 'Ages since I saw you, Reardon. I've been reading your new book. Uncommonly good things in it here and there--uncommonly good.'
Whelpdale had the weakness of being unable to tell a disagreeable truth, and a tendency to flattery which had always made Reardon rather uncomfortable in his society. Though there was no need whatever of his mentioning 'Margaret Home,' he preferred to frame smooth fictions rather than keep a silence which might be construed as unfavourable criticism.
'In the last volume,' he went on, 'I think there are one or two things as good as you ever did; I do indeed.'
Reardon made no acknowledgment of these remarks. They irritated him, for he knew their insincerity. Biffen, understanding his friend's silence, struck in on another subject.
'Who is this lady of whom you write to me?'
'Ah, quite a story! I'm going to be married, Reardon. A serious marriage. Light your pipes, and I'll tell you all about it.
Startled you, I suppose, Biffen? Unlikely news, eh? Some people would call it a rash step, I dare say. We shall just take another room in this house, that's all. I think I can count upon an income of a couple of guineas a week, and I have plans without end that are pretty sure to bring in coin.'
Reardon did not care to smoke, but Biffen lit his pipe and waited with grave interest for the romantic narrative. Whenever he heard of a poor man's persuading a woman to share his poverty he was eager of details; perchance he himself might yet have that heavenly good fortune.