Then another cigar was partaken of, and another, after which it was found to be too late for the projected visit to one of the theatres, and Magnus proposed an adjournment to his own room.
To this, however, Artingale would not consent, and in consequence they sat till long after ten, and then parted, each to his own chambers.
Artingale’s way of going to his own chambers was to take a hansom, and tell the man to drive him to the Marble Arch, and then along the Bayswater-road until told to stop.
This last order came before Kensington Gardens were reached, when the man was dismissed, and the fare wandered down the nearest turning, and along slowly by the backs of the Parkleigh Gardens houses—or their fronts, whichever the part was termed that faced north.
Up and down here he paraded several times—not a very wise proceeding, seeing that he might have come sooner in the evening, and the doors would have flown open at his summons. But it has always been so from the beginning. A gentleman gets into a certain state, and then thinks that he derives a great deal of satisfaction in gazing at the casket which holds the jewel of his love. When the custom first came in it is of course impossible to say, but it is extremely probable that Jacob used to parade about in the sand on moonlight nights, and watch the tent that contained his Rachel, and no doubt the custom has followed right away down the corridors of time.
When Artingale had finished the front of the house he went round to the back, made his way by some mysterious means into the garden, where he fancied he saw some one watching; and concluding that it would not be pleasant to be seen, he beat a retreat, and after a glance up at Cynthia’s window, where he could see a light, he contented himself by walking slowly back, so as to get to the other side of the lofty row of houses.
“Just one walk up and down,” he said to himself, “and then home to bed.”
It was some distance round, and as he went along he made the following original observation:—“This is precious stupid!” And at the end of another fifty yards—“But somehow I seem to like it. Does one good. ’Pon my soul, I think the best thing a fellow can do is to fall in love.”
He sauntered on from gas-lamp to gas-lamp, till he was once more at the front, or back, of the great houses, with their entrance-doors on his right, and a great blank-looking wall on his left.
He went dreamily on along the pavement, past the furnished house that the agent assured the Rector he had obtained dirt cheap, which no doubt it was, but it was what a gold-miner would call wash dirt. When about midway, Artingale passed some one on the other side, close to the wall, and walking in the opposite direction.