Pushing his way through the other passengers, with a discontented expression upon his genial face that rather misbecomes it, he emerges into the open air, to find that a smart drizzle, unworthy the name of rain, is falling inhospitably upon him.
There is a fog,—not as thick as it might be, but a decided fog,—and everything is gloomy to the last degree.
Stumbling up against another tall young man, dressed almost to a tie the same as himself, he smothers the uncivil ejaculation that rises so naturally to his lips, and after a second glance changes it to one of greeting.
"Ah, Fenning, is it you?" he says. "This beastly fog prevented my recognizing you at first. How are you? It is ages since last we met."
"Is it indeed you, Luttrell?" says the new-comer, stopping short and altering his sour look to one of pleased astonishment. "You in the flesh? Let us look at you?" Drawing Luttrell into the neighborhood of an unhappy lamp that tries against its conscience to think it is showing light and grows every minute fainter and more depressed in its struggle against truth. "All the way from Paddyland, where he has spent four long months," says Mr. Fenning, "and he is still alive! It is inconceivable. Let me examine you. Sound, I protest,—sound in wind and limb; not a defacing mark! I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. I am awful glad to see you, old boy. What are you going to do with yourself this evening?"
"I wish I knew. I am absolutely thrown upon the world. You will take me somewhere with you, if you have any charity about you."
"I'm engaged for this evening." With a groan. "Ain't I unlucky? Hang it all, something told me to refuse old Wiggins's emblazoned card, but I wouldn't be warned. Now, what can I do for you?"
"You can at least advise me how best to kill time to-night."
"The Alhambra has a good thing on," says young Fenning, brightening; "and the Argyll——"
"I'm used up, morally and physically," interrupts Luttrell, rather impatiently. "Suggest something calmer—musical, or that."