But all the same, he signed himself hers till death; sent his dear love to “little Fin;” and then, having posted his letters, he felt better, and went to seek out Frank Pratt.
“He won’t turn out a fine weather friend, of that I’m sure,” he said, as he went up, the staircase in the Temple, to be seized by both hands as soon as he entered, and have to submit to a couple of minutes’ shaking.
“Why, Dick, old man, this does one good!” exclaimed Pratt. “Now, then, a steak and stout, or a chop and Bass, two pipes, and a grand debauch at night, eh?”
“What debauch?” said Richard, smiling.
“Front row of the pit, my boy. Absolute freedom; comfort of the stalls without having to dress. Nobody waiting to seize your ‘overcoat, sir.’ Good view of the stage; and, when the curtain’s down, time and opportunity to pity the curled darlings of society, who stand, in melancholy row, with their backs to the orchestra, fiddling their crush hats, and staring up at the audience through eyeglasses that blind.”
“And meet Flick and Vanleigh.”
“Who cares?” said Pratt, forcing his friend into a well-worn easy chair, and taking away hat and stick. “Isn’t that a lovely chair, Dick? I’ve worked that chair into that shape—moulded it, sir, into the form of my figure, and worn off all its awkward corners. Pipe?—there you are. ’Bacco?—there you are. Whisky?—there you are. And there’s a light. Have a dressing-gown and slippers?”
“No, no—thanks,” said Dick, laughing.
But his face twitched as, after filling and trying to light a pipe, he laid it hastily down, wrung Pratt’s hand, and then started up and walked to the window, to stand gazing out at the dirty walls before him.
Before he had been there a moment, a friendly hand was laid upon his shoulder and Pratt got hold of his hand, standing behind him without a word, till he turned again and walked back to his seat.