Nicholas bowed, and bidding him good-morning, turned upon his heel.
‘Stay,’ said the old man, beckoning him into a bye street, where they could converse with less interruption. ‘What d’ye mean, eh?’
‘Merely that your kind face and manner—both so unlike any I have ever seen—tempted me into an avowal, which, to any other stranger in this wilderness of London, I should not have dreamt of making,’ returned Nicholas.
‘Wilderness! Yes, it is, it is. Good! It is a wilderness,’ said the old man with much animation. ‘It was a wilderness to me once. I came here barefoot. I have never forgotten it. Thank God!’ and he raised his hat from his head, and looked very grave.
‘What’s the matter? What is it? How did it all come about?’ said the old man, laying his hand on the shoulder of Nicholas, and walking him up the street. ‘You’re—Eh?’ laying his finger on the sleeve of his black coat. ‘Who’s it for, eh?’
‘My father,’ replied Nicholas.
‘Ah!’ said the old gentleman quickly. ‘Bad thing for a young man to lose his father. Widowed mother, perhaps?’
Nicholas sighed.
‘Brothers and sisters too? Eh?’
‘One sister,’ rejoined Nicholas.