“Hush, hush!” cried Mrs Max, “here is your guardian.” As she spoke she hastily wiped her eyes—pretty dry this time—and put away her handkerchief, for voices were heard below.
In fact, half an hour before, Max Shingle had been rolling grandly along from the City, looking the full-blown perfection of a thick-lipped, self-inflated, sensual man, when he encountered Hopper, who hooked him at once with his stick.
“Hullo, Max Shingle!” he cried: “been doing good, as usual? Here: I’ll come home to dinner with you,” he continued, taking his arm.
Max swore a very ugly oath to himself; but he was obliged to put up with the annoyance—a feeling modified, however, by his curiosity being excited.
“I’ve just come from your brother Dick’s,” said Hopper, winking to himself.
Max was mollified directly, for reasons of his own; for, though over two years had passed, Dick had kept his own counsel so well that not a soul, even in his own family, knew the full secret of his success. Hopper was as ignorant as the rest; but he assumed a knowledge in Max’s presence that he did not possess.
“Is—is he doing well?” said Max, in an indifferent tone. “Hey?”
“I say, is he doing well?” shouted Max.
“Wonderfully! Keeps his brougham, and a carriage besides, for his wife and daughter.”
“Ah!” said Max. “Is he civil to you? No music now, I suppose?”