“Yes, sir, yes. But I like them,” said Thickens with a droll sidewise look at his visitor. “You see the water’s always gently warmed from the mill there, and that makes them thrive. They put one in mind of gold and silver, sir, and the bank. And they’re nice companions: they don’t talk.”
He seemed then to have remembered something. A curious rigidity came over him, and though his visitor was disposed to linger by the pool where, in the evening light, the brightly-coloured fish glowed like dropped flakes of the sunset, Thickens drew back for him to pass, and then almost backed him into the house.
“Sit down, please, Mr Bayle,” he said, rather huskily; and he placed a chair for his visitor. “You got my note, then?”
“Yes, and I came on. You want my—”
“Help and advice, sir; that’s it. I’m in a cleft stick, sir—fast.”
“I am sorry,” said Bayle earnestly, for Thickens paused. “Is it anything serious?”
Thickens nodded, sat down astride a Windsor chair, holding tightly by the curved back, and rested his upper teeth on the top, tapping the wood gently.
Bayle waited a few moments for him to go on; but he only began rubbing at the top of the chair back, and stared at his visitor.
“You say it is serious, Mr Thickens.”
“Terribly, sir.”