‘In Tottenham Court Road?’
That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon’s attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind involuntarily played this trick.
‘I only saw them just as they were passing,’ pursued Biffen. ‘Oh, I knew I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to be married?’
Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.
‘I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him up to-night, and he’d let me know all about it. Let’s go together, shall we?’
‘I don’t feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I’ll walk with you, and go on home.’
‘No, no; come and see him. It’ll do you good to talk a little.—But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I’m afraid you won’t care to join?’
He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper.
‘Better dripping this than I’ve had for a long time. I get it at Mr Bailey’s—that isn’t his real name, of course. He assures me it comes from a large hotel where his wife’s sister is a kitchen-maid, and that it’s perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn’t care to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.’
‘I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?’