And now the desk was propped open again, and it was his own belongings that he was collecting into a heap. The well-known odour of the wood came to his nostrils and he sighed a little. From shadowy and dusty corners he got together the little trifles that had been part and parcel of his life and arranged them in a neat pile beside him.
"If there's anything I can do for you——" began the junior, brushing his hair in front of a little mirror and settling his purple tie nervously.
"No, Joynings; nothing, I thank you. I'm leaving you old Brown's looking-glass and soap-box—they're fixtures, and go with the position."
The junior tittered a little at this and pulled down the front of his fancy waistcoat, lit a cigarette, and took a pair of roller-skates from the drawer of his desk. He came over and held out his hand.
"Right, then I'll be popping along—good luck, old man, and all that. You'll drop into something soon. If I hear of anything——"
"Oh, I'll be all right," said Edward Povey.
There is always a certain fascination in change and elation in abnormal conditions, even if those conditions constitute a misfortune. Edward Povey was surprised at his inner feelings as he left the portals of Messrs. Kyser, Schultz & Company's offices. In his own mind he knew that he ought to be feeling depressed; but the fact remained that he was feeling nothing of the kind, indeed he felt happier than he had done for the past twenty-two years, except perhaps on that one evening fifteen years ago. Then he had been hurrying out to a small house in a mean street in Barnsbury, to a little woman who was waiting for the news that would enable her to become the wife of the man who brought it. Now he was going to another little house in a mean street, in Clapham this time, to the same woman, but with how different tidings and how differently they would be received. Fifteen years ago the future had looked very bright to the limited vision of Mr. Edward Povey. He had left the office after his marriage with a light step and hurried across the bridge that would lead him to the villa he had taken. As the years passed, the light step had become a sedate walk, and now it was hard to recognize in the little bowed figure that shuffled each evening across London Bridge the Edward Povey of other days.
But to-night, curiously enough, the step was not shuffling and the little iron-grey head was more erect. The blow that had fallen when Mr. Schultz had given him the buff envelope which contained his salary and his congé had been deadening, and the feeling had numbed him for the whole day. Then had come the inevitable reaction, the need for movement, for effort, and the heart of Edward Povey was responding nobly to the call, the heart that had lain dormant since the early days of his marriage.
For Charlotte Povey, estimable woman, cherished fondly the idea that for fifteen years she had been moulding the life, the destinies, and the character of her husband, and he, for the sake of peace, had given himself unresistingly to the potter's thumb. Charlotte's method, however, left much to be desired. With the laudable object of rousing the soul of Edward to further action and endeavour, she let not a day pass without comparing, much to his disparagement, his actions and even his appearance with other men of their acquaintance.
But instead of this having the desired effect, Edward had gradually come to believe it all; it had been so consistently impressed upon him that he was a poor sort of a chap anyway, and the inevitable result was—the envelope presented to him that morning by Mr. Schultz.