“Tsh! Paul!—we’ll avoid delicate subjects, please. But since I am in the confessional, I ought to add that I haven’t a coat or waistcoat. Misfortune makes us acquainted with strange underclothes.”
Paul Pangbutt smiled; but a frown followed close upon the smile, and blackened it. He was possessed of that peculiar egoism which, at the sight of the pitiful, is but roused to a delicious self-pity.
“Ah,” said he; and a little suspicion of patronage slipped into his manner, as it does when we are content to comfort our friends with phrases—“I have not forgotten what makeshifts were in Paris—before I made my mark.... I always detested frayed cuffs.”
A funny little smile played about the lips of the seated man; he nodded grimly:
“H’m, yes. Having no shirt at all has that advantage—the cuffs do not fray.”
Pangbutt’s scowl came flitting back:
“Yes; I know.... You and the others always made a jest of the disgusting pinch and meanness of it all——”
The weary man nodded:
“Ah, yes, it’s true,” said he, and he sighed—“the road was very weary—very dusty—sometimes—in Paris.”
The other strode vigorously up and down the room, with that vigour that had set him on the road to success: his eyes were fixed within: