"You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to waste."
He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed the train.
Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said:
"John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course. How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow."
I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived.
"Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address.
The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first.
The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down.
"Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside.
It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter.