It was Scott.
Gobion took him into his room, and lit the little alabaster lamp, rich in gaudy flower work. The door opened, and the Reverend Peter Belper came in. The light shone on him, and he looked more Silenus-like than ever. "Beg pardon," he said, "thought you were alone." Gobion seized the momentary diversion of his coming to put on a tie and push his dirty cuffs under the sleeves of his coat.
"Oh! my dear old man," said Scott, looking round the room, "have you come to this? Why didn't you tell me?"
He put his arm on his shoulder, and Gobion drew nearer, shaking with emotion.
"I've been always thinking of you," said Scott. "It's been so lonely without you—so dull and lonely—we all miss you so. They said at Oxford that you'd been mixed up in some beastly newspaper scandal, but I knew of course that you'd rather die than do anything like that. I've been horribly afraid for you. You see, I couldn't find out where you'd got to or anything. You look terribly ill, old man; you must come out of this hole. Come away with me to-morrow, and when you're better you can make a new start."
"It's no use," said Gobion, "I'm finished—mind and body."
"Rot, old man! you're only rather pippy. Don't you know you've always got me? Don't you remember how once for a joke in those Ship Street rooms you made me put my hands between yours and swear to be your man? Well, it wasn't a joke—to me. Don't you know how we all love you? Fancy your being here, you who used to lead us all. Damn it all, what gaudy nonsense I'm talking!"
His rather commonplace face shone strangely. He seemed to change the mean aspect of the room, to annihilate its sordidness.
Late at night Scott went back to his hotel, promising to be round first thing in the morning to take Gobion away. They parted at the door with a long hand-grip, and never met again in this world.
When he had gone Gobion went back to his room and fell like a log on to the floor, lying there motionless till the grey light crept into the court.