‘Please don’t make him more conceited than he naturally is,’ interposed Dora.
‘What news of Biffen?’ asked Jasper, presently.
‘He says he shall finish “Mr Bailey, Grocer,” in about a month. He read me one of the later chapters the other night. It’s really very fine; most remarkable writing, it seems to me. It will be scandalous if he can’t get it published; it will, indeed.’
‘I do hope he may!’ said Dora, laughing. ‘I have heard so much of “Mr Bailey,” that it will be a great disappointment if I am never to read it.’
‘I’m afraid it would give you very little pleasure,’ Whelpdale replied, hesitatingly. ‘The matter is so very gross.’
‘And the hero grocer!’ shouted Jasper, mirthfully. ‘Oh, but it’s quite decent; only rather depressing. The decently ignoble—or, the ignobly decent? Which is Biffen’s formula? I saw him a week ago, and he looked hungrier than ever.’
‘Ah, but poor Reardon! I passed him at King’s Cross not long ago.
He didn’t see me—walks with his eyes on the ground always—and I hadn’t the courage to stop him. He’s the ghost of his old self. He can’t live long.’
Dora and her brother exchanged a glance. It was a long time since Jasper had spoken to his sisters about the Reardons; nowadays he seldom heard either of husband or wife.
The conversation that went on was so agreeable to Whelpdale, that he lost consciousness of time. It was past eleven o’clock when Jasper felt obliged to remind him.