“I have not.”
“When do you go back to London?” he inquired, throwing one leg over the other and clasping his hands behind his head.
“On Wednesday.”
“I suppose I shall be back there before very long,” said Vincent, looking meditatively at the sky. “Probably I shall get a clerkship at five-and-twenty shillings a week.”
“I’m afraid you don’t show much energy,” said Rhoda, in a voice which lacked something of the indifference she meant to put into it.
“I’ve told you often enough I have none, Miss Meres. I’m like a piece of sea-weed; my condition is dependent on the weather.”
“It’s fine enough now, at all events,” she said, with an attempt at a laugh.
“Oh, yes; but there’s the very deuce brewing,” returned Vincent, with characteristic freedom of expression. “I wish,” he added slowly, “I’d somebody to help me—somebody who has energy.”
“Doesn’t Mr. Parkes——”
“Pooh!”