"It's a pity—a great pity. By the way, have you ever been to Ironfields?"
Roger hesitated, turned uneasily in his chair, and at last blurted out:
"No; I have never been to Ironfields."
"Humph!" said Fanks, looking doubtfully at him. "I thought you might have met Miss Varlins there for the first time."
"So I might," replied Roger, equably; "at the same time I might have met her in London."
"So you don't know anything about Ironfields."
"Only that it is a manufacturing town given over to the domination of foundries and millionaires in the iron interest; to me it is simply a geographical expression."
"I plead guilty to the same state of ignorance, but I will shortly be wiser, because I am going down to Ironfields."
"What for?" demanded Roger, with a start.
"I shouldn't let you into the secrets of the prison house," said Mr. Fanks, severely; "but as you are 'mine own familiar friend'—Shakespeare again, ubiquitous poet well, as you are mine own familiar friend, I don't mind telling you in confidence, I'm going down to see Wosk & Co., of Ironfields, Chemists."