He was unmarried.
As for his judgment upon any of the great complexities of modern life, no worse judge could have been discovered than this utterly simple, obstinate, loud-voiced man. His judgment upon such an adventure as Mr Barnett’s could hardly for a moment be in doubt. Mr Burden had felt it instinctively, and, for all these weeks, had carefully avoided that familiar room. Now at last he entered; but the very sight of Mr Abbott’s face roused in him a kind of warning that a severe difference of opinion might arise.
It will not surprise my readers to be told that Mr Abbott’s greeting was emphatic and commonplace, full of “eh’s?” and “Lord love me’s,” and “all this long time’s”; but there lay in it a kind of hint that Mr Abbott knew well enough the cause which had so prolonged that interval.
Natural as was hesitation to such a man upon such a subject, Mr Burden looking first in his friend’s eyes, and then away from them to a vile oil painting of the Arethusa, said:
“Abbott, I have come to ask your advice upon a matter ... or perhaps I should say, I want to hear what you think of a matter....”
Mr Abbott replied that Mr Burden might “ask away,” and “whatever you’re going to do,” he continued, with a facile joviality, “take my advice and don’t.” He laughed boisterously, as is the fashion of such men, at his own wit, blew his nose in a resounding way, took out a pipe, filled it with an astonishing black tobacco, lit it and said:
“Fire it out, my lad. Out with her!”
It was some time since Mr Burden had suffered this kind of approach; and it cannot be denied that he was more than a little nettled. Perhaps he showed it in his tone. At anyrate he said shortly enough:
“I have come to ask you what you think of the M’Korio?”
“It stinks,” said Mr Abbott, decisively.