A Visit.
And the months glided on. Winter came, and in its turn gave place to the promise of spring; that came, though, with its harsh eastern blasts that threatened to extinguish the frail lamp of life still burning opposite Richard’s rooms.
He had responded to Pin’s letter soon after its receipt, but he had heard no more. His attempts at obtaining an engagement had proved failures still; and so he had accepted his fate, and spent his time reading hard, his sole pleasures being a visit across the road, or a dinner with Frank Pratt.
Of the acts of the Rea family he knew little, save that they had wintered in Cornwall, from which a letter came occasionally from Humphrey or Mr Mervyn, both sent to the care of Frank Pratt, Esq.; and in his, Humphrey had twice over expressed a wish to divide the property with his old companion.
“I don’t see why you shouldn’t do so,” Pratt had said. “It’s Quixotic not to accept his offer.”
“Aut Caesar, aut nullus,” was Richard’s reply. “No, Franky, I’m too proud. I could never go to Cornwall again but as master. Those days are gone.”
“But, Dick, old man!”
“My dear Franky,” said Richard, dropping something of the misanthropical bitterness that had come over him of late, “I am quite content as I am—content to wait; some of these days a chance will turn up. I’ll abide my time.”
“He’s gone back to her,” said Pratt, shaking his head. “Poor old Dick!—some people would misjudge him cruelly. Well, time will show.”
Pratt was quite right, Richard had gone back to Netta; for it promised to be a fine afternoon, and on such days it had grown to be his custom to devote the few shillings he could spare from his scanty income to the payment of Sam Jenkles.