"Yes, sir—certainly, sir," said the domestic, hastily transferring a pepper-box from one side of the table to the other, and smoothing down the cloth: "please to order any thing to drink, gentlemen?"
"A bottle of champagne," returned Mr. Chichester; "and make haste about it."
"Yes, sir—this minute, sir:"—and the waiter glided away with that kind of shuffling, shambling motion which no living beings save waiters can ever accomplish.
When the provender was duly supplied, and the first glass of champagne was quaffed, Chichester leant across the table, and said to the baronet in a low tone of chuckling triumph, "Well, old chap, I don't think we can complain of Fortune during the last three or four months?"
"No—far from it," returned Sir Rupert Harborough. "But we musn't be idle because we happen to have a few five pound notes in our pocket. However, things will turn up, I dare say."
"Yes—if we look out for them," said Chichester; "but not unless. By the bye, who do you think I met this afternoon, as I was strolling along the Strand?"
"Can't say at all," replied the baronet. "Who?"
"Greenwood," added Chichester.
"The deuce you did! And how was he looking?"
"Not so slap-up as he used to be:—no jewellery—toggery not quite new—hat showing marks of the late rain—boots patched at the sides—and cotton gloves."