Five.
That evening, conscious of responsibility and of virtue, Edwin walked up Trafalgar Road with a less gawky and more dignified mien than ever he had managed to assume before. He had not only dismissed programmes of culture, he had forgotten them. After twelve hours as head of a business, they had temporarily ceased to interest him. And when he passed, or was overtaken by, other men of affairs, he thought to himself naïvely in the dark, “I am the equal of these men.” And the image of Florence Simcox, the clog-dancer, floated through his mind.
He found Darius alone in the drawing-room, in front of an uncustomary fire, garden-clay still on his boots, and “The Christian News” under his spectacles. The Sunday before the funeral of Mr Shushions had been so unusual and so distressing that Darius had fallen into arrear with his perusals. True, he had never been known to read “The Christian News” on any day but Sunday, but now every day was Sunday.
Edwin nodded to him and approached the fire, rubbing his hands.
“What’s this as I hear?” Darius began, with melancholy softness.
“Eh?”
“About Albert wanting to borrow a thousand pounds?” Darius gazed at him over his spectacles.
“Albert wanting to borrow a thousand pounds!” Edwin repeated, astounded.
“Aye! Have they said naught to you?”