"A little, I think, and her father looks on me as an eligible; he doesn't know I've been sent down, and I don't intend he shall. I have to meet the 4.30 this afternoon."
"Well, I wanted to talk over our plans some time to-day. When will you come to my chambers?"
"This evening, I should think. I must work till four; I've a novel to do for The Pilgrim, and I've not read a line yet."
"Oh, don't bother about that. 'Smell the paper-knife' instead; let's go to the 'copy shop.'"
"Afraid I can't; I must do it. Look here, I will come round about ten this evening. Don't be drunk."
"Right oh! I'll go back now and get my rooms into some sort of order."
He rolled a cigarette and roamed about the room, looking for his hat. "It's gone to the devil, I think," he said.
"In that case you'll find it again some day. There it is, though—under the sofa. I thought you didn't believe in the devil."
"Satan may be dead, as the hedonists think; but I expect someone still carries on the business."
When he had gone Gobion got to work, and wrote steadily till three, when he went to the "copy shop" to get something to eat. They kept him waiting some little time. Albert, the waiter, who was supposed to be smart in his profession, on this occasion hid his talent (no doubt in a napkin), and Gobion had only a minute to spare when he got to Victoria.