"Yes, sir; he told me so strictly."
"But it is my business not to believe you ... so announce me, you peony of Pimlico! announce me .... No; I'll announce myself."
So saying, Frank marched up stairs, and without ceremony walked into the atélier.
Cecil was embarrassed at seeing him.
"What's this? cut so old a chum as Frank Forrester! Not at home to Frank! Damn my whiskers! it is enough to make one give the lie to those prime histories of ancient friendship; the Damons and Pythiases didn't say not at home to each other, I presume.... What's the start, Cis, my boy? How is it we never see you? How is it I am denied whenever I present my agreeable person at your inhospitable door?"
Cecil briefly explained to him the change which had taken place in his finances and his habits.
"Quite right too, Cis. Damn it! there's nothing to be done at rouge et noir. I have quite given it up! Unfortunately, not before it cleaned me out. You see," he added, looking down upon his costume, "I am not magnificent .... I don't flourish."
To judge by his appearance, indeed, he did not flourish; and Cecil could not help being painfully struck with the contrast between his costume now, and when last he saw him. Rings, chains, studs, shirt pin, and cane were gone. The hat was greasy, and glossy from being carefully brushed after repeated wettings; the cut-away coat was so threadbare, and its collar so greasy, that it seemed as if it had been worn for ten years, and was hourly in danger of falling to pieces. The double-breasted waistcoat, the brilliant shawl-pattern of which was now greatly faded, was buttoned up to the throat. The sky-blue trousers, worn at the seams, and bagged at the knees, were tightly strapped over a pair of decent boots. Altogether, there was such unmistakeable poverty, coupled with such an attempt at style, that his appearance was singularly painful. It was not humble poverty; it was faded splendour. It was the wreck of a man about town.
His face also showed the effects of the change. Poverty had brought with it a forced abstinence from that excitement which hitherto had sustained him; and every one knows the effects which follow any cessation of accustomed stimulus. Frank having been used to live freely, sometimes intemperately, now drank water. Accustomed to the excitement of the gaming-table, he now could rarely indulge in it. Some men, forced to abstain from wine, would have taken to spirits, or even beer; but Frank damned his whiskers, and declared he was a gentleman, and had never learned to "guzzle": if he could not get wine, and good wine, he would not defile his palate with vulgar drinks.
"What are you doing?" asked Cecil.