“Who would live in the country?” said Mr. Lane.
“Why, I would!” declared Mr. Dobb. “I love the country! All the little dicky-birds and—so on!”
He suddenly rose, proclaiming his intention of going home to bed as a preventive measure against chill. He nodded a protracted, dreary-eyed, good-night to each individual of the company present, and then, festooning across the apartment, noisily negotiated the door and passed from view.
No sooner was Mr. Dobb outside in the street, however, than his waywardness dropped from him, and, congratulating himself on his histrionic powers, he walked briskly to his abode.
Soon after breakfast next morning, Mr. Lane was visible in Fore Street. Into half a dozen shop-windows did he peer with an air of boredom, nor did his expression become quickened when at length he ranged himself before the jumbled collection of oddments which Mr. Dobb exhibited to the passer-by.
For some moments Mr. Lane affected a lukewarm interest in a faded photograph of the Niagara Falls, and next he lingered to gaze on a teapot which had suffered casualty in its more obtrusive parts. And, after that, he stepped into the doorway and pretended close scrutiny of a pair of cast-iron dumb-bells, and, under cover of this manœuvre, he glanced into the interior of the shop, and there saw a heterogeneous pile of furniture which was evidently awaiting disposal, and the most conspicuous item in it was a tattered and battered old arm-chair.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Lane, involuntarily.
At this juncture Mr. Horace Dobb himself made an appearance at the threshold of his shop with evident purpose of ascertaining the state of the weather.
“Good morning, sir!” he said.
“Good morning—good morning!” returned Mr. Lane, with eager amiability. “Did you keep the cold off all right?”