"That, my boy, is the state of the case."
"By Jove! No wonder you didn't see me as I came upstairs. What the deuce! You in Queer Street! I never dreamt of such a thing as a possibility. I've always thought of you as a flourishing capitalist—sound as the Mansion House. Why didn't you begin by telling me this? I'm about as miserable as a fellow can be, but I should never have bothered you with my miseries.—Warburton in want of money? Why, the idea is grotesque; I can't get hold of it. I came to you as men go to a bank. Of course, I meant to pay it all, some day, but you were so generous and so rich, I never thought there would be any hurry. I'm astounded—I'm floored!"
With infinite satisfaction, Warburton saw the better man rising again in his friend, noted the change of countenance, of bearing, of tone.
"You see," he said, with a nod and a smile, "that you've no choice but to finish 'The Slummer!'"
Franks looked about him uneasily, fretfully.
"Either that—or something else," he muttered.
"No—that! It'll bring you two or three hundred pounds without much delay."
"I daresay it would. But if you knew how I loathe and curse the very sight of the thing—Why I haven't burnt it I don't know."
"Probably," said Will, "because in summer weather you take your gin and laudanum cold."
This time the artist's laugh was more genuine.