“No, you have not told me,” I cried; “and I am no more lamb of yours than his; and anyhow, I had my shepherd already.”
“A poor shepherd,” he said. “Witness his watchfulness!”
I bit my lip, and said no more. For a moment I hated myself and him—his specious reasonings, which had led me to abandon my honest, good comrade and saviour. While I sat dumb, a low whistle sounded through the wall; and instantly he turned to me.
“You do not like your dining-parlour?” he said. “But, believe me, it has a thousand conveniences of privacy, of which here is not the least.”
And, with the word, drawing on the string he held in his hand, he brought a tray into light. It was packed with comestibles—bread, and honey, and collops of venison that smelt royally; but, when he transferred these to the table, I had no stomach for them, and pushed away the plate he offered me.
“What! You won’t eat?” he said.
“I can’t breakfast in a sewer.”
“Very well.”
He fell to himself, without further delay, and with plenty of appetite. I watched him out of the corners of my eyes, half maddened already by the abstinence I had imposed on myself. He was dressed like a forester, I have said; and now I observed that he affected the manners of a forester, consciously, it would seem, effacing in himself the more gentle observances. It may have been an effort to him; but, anyhow, he tore his bread and gnawed his bones with the air of one bred to the soil—with a set of perfect white teeth, too, it must be conceded. And, while he despatched, throwing his litter on the board, he continued talking to me fitfully.
“Yes,” he said, “it is very convenient for such as we, who desire not only to save our labour, but our lives certainly, and our self-respect if possible. You don’t ask me where we are?”