He walked to Richard’s hotel, and up and down the street there, hoping every minute to hear his step; sometimes fancying he might have returned and gone to bed. Two o’clock struck. Ripton could not go away. He was sure he should not sleep if he did. At last the cold sent him homeward, and leaving the street, on the moonlight side of Piccadilly he met his friend patrolling with his head up and that swing of the feet proper to men who are chanting verses.
“Old Rip!” cried Richard, cheerily. “What on earth are you doing here at this hour of the morning?”
Ripton muttered of his pleasure at meeting him. “I wanted to shake your hand before I went home.”
Richard smiled on him in an amused kindly way. “That all? You may shake my hand any day, like a true man as you are, old Rip! I’ve been speaking about you. Do you know, that—Mrs. Mount—never saw you all the time at Richmond, or in the boat!”
“Oh!” Ripton said, well assured that he was a dwarf “you saw her safe home?”
“Yes. I’ve been there for the last couple of hours—talking. She talks capitally: she’s wonderfully clever. She’s very like a man, only much nicer. I like her.”
“But, Richard, excuse me—I’m sure I don’t mean to offend you—but now you’re married...perhaps you couldn’t help seeing her home, but I think you really indeed oughtn’t to have gone upstairs.”
Ripton delivered this opinion with a modest impressiveness.
“What do you mean?” said Richard. “You don’t suppose I care for any woman but my little darling down there.” He laughed.
“No; of course not. That’s absurd. What I mean is, that people perhaps will—you know, they do—they say all manner of things, and that makes unhappiness; and I do wish you were going home to-morrow, Ricky. I mean, to your dear wife.” Ripton blushed and looked away as he spoke.