“Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his profession Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend of every friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. Here, take him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to be admitted.’
“Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, reflectively.—“Becky,” he called, raising his voice.
Becky appeared.
“Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat.
“Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished.
“Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning.
He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves, bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a grimy window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a patch-work quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply accentuated features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose magic was beginning to operate upon himself.
“Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked to find you suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much pain? You must try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They say it’s the best remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you getting on? Do you notice any improvement?”
The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business you wanted to see me about?” he inquired.
“Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety regarding your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to attend?”