Their existence was wretched indeed. Vyner and Julius took care that Blanche should want for no necessities—food, clothing, little articles of necessity were all regularly sent in by them; and the rent was paid by Vyner himself. But no more money could Cecil extort from them on any pretext. They knew well enough, that to give him money was only to give him opportunities of playing, and so they limited their charity to seeing that Blanche and her child, were not in absolute want.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FORGERY.
One day as Cecil was sauntering down Piccadilly, he was astonished to see Frank Forrester, in a superb cab, with tiger behind, drive up to Burlington Arcade, and there, arrayed in dashing style, step out as if the lord and master of three thousand a year, at least.
The contrast between his appearance at that moment, and the last time Cecil had seen him, when in the final stage of seediness, he had gambled away even his dinner, so amazed Cecil, that he rubbed his eyes as one awaking from a dream.
"Ah! Cis, my boy, how are you?" said Frank, grasping him by the hand. "Why, you're quite a stranger.—I am so glad to see you. Flourishing now, damn my whiskers! flourishing, Cis, as you perceive. Nobby style, eh? Correct thing that, I hope."
"Quite—But whence this change?"
"Oh! tell you that presently. Just step up the arcade with me.—I'm only going to look in upon Jeffs, to see if Paul de Kock's last novel has arrived, and then command me."
He put his arm within Cecil's, and marched up the arcade, playing with an elegant watch-chain which drooped from his waistcoat button, and winking at every woman they passed.
When they turned into Jeffs' shop, that worthy bibliopole, albeit accustomed daily to a strange variety of customers, from noblemen and their flunkies, to dingy, sallow, foreigners, redolent of garlic, and bearded like pards, opened his eyes at such a strange apparition as the resplendent, insolent Frank, arm in arm with the careworn, battered, shabby, Cecil.