“Why, Franky,” said Trevor, laying his hand upon the other’s arm, and speaking with the old schoolboy familiarity, “I can’t help noticing these money allusions. Have you been very short at times?”
There was a pause of a few moments’ duration, and then Pratt said, shortly—“Awfully!”
They walked on then in silence, which was broken at last by Pratt, who said in a hurried way—
“That accounts for my shabby, screwy ways, Dick, so forgive me for having developed into such a mean little beggar. You see, the governor died and left madam with barely enough to live on, and then she pinched for my education, and she had to fight through it all to get ready for my call to the bar, where, in our innocence—bless us!—we expected that briefs would come showering in, and that, once started in chambers in the Temple, my fortune would be made.”
“And the briefs do not shower down yet, Franky?” said Trevor.
“Don’t come even in drops. Haven’t had occasion for an umbrella once yet. So I went out to Egypt with Landells, you know, and wrote letters and articles for the Geographical; and, somehow, I got elected to the ‘Wanderers,’ and—here’s the gorgeous Van and little Flick.”
“Ah, Trevor, my dear boy!” said the first-named gentleman, sauntering up, “thought we should see you somewhere. Flick, have the goodness to slip that into the case for me.”
As he spoke, he handed the race-glass he held in his delicately-gloved hands to the young baronet, who looked annoyed, but closed the glass, and slipped it into the sling-case hanging at his companion’s side.
“We should have seen you before, but we came upon a pair of rural houris in a barouche.”
“Where?” said Pratt, sharply.