There was no change in his expression. He still looked from the window, and I said:
“Titbottom, I did not know that you used glasses. I have never seen you wearing spectacles.”
“No, I don’t often wear them. I am not very fond of looking through them. But sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put them on, and I cannot help seeing.”
Titbottom sighed.
“Is it so grievous a fate to see?” inquired I.
“Yes; through my spectacles,” he said, turning slowly, and looking at me with wan solemnity.
It grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and, taking our hats, we went out together. The narrow street of business was deserted. The heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows. From one or two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by whose light some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for his error. A careless clerk passed, whistling. But the great tide of life had ebbed. We heard its roar far away, and the sound stole into that silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland dell.
“You will come and dine with us, Titbottom?”
He assented by continuing to walk with me, and I think we were both glad when we reached the house, and Prue came to meet us, saying:
“Do you know I hoped you would bring Mr. Titbottom to dine?”