"Again—and again," said Betty, "but his stammer always defeats him."
"And he had the real stuff in him," said Lord Randolph. "What a pity it was not allowed to come out!"
"The real stuff always comes out," said Lady Randolph, rising.
When Jim took his leave a few minutes later, he was under promise to spend Whitsuntide at Birr Wood. Lady Randolph commissioned him to persuade Mark to be of the party. Archibald—she felt assured—would join them. But it must be made plain that a refusal from Mark would be considered an offence.
Outside, Jim lit an excellent cigar which he smoked as a cab whirled him eastward. Years afterwards he remembered that drive: the swift transition from Belgrave Square to the Mile End Road. He had seen Mark the day before, but only for a few minutes, because some poor creature had come running for his friend. But those few minutes stood out sable against the white background of their previous intercourse. Never could he forget Mark's delight at seeing him: the light in his blue eyes, the grasp of his thin hand, the thrill of his voice. And yet, to offset this, was the grim fact that his friend's health and strength were failing. And this failure, measured by his (Corrance's) success, seemed tragic. Yet was it? The question festered. And that long drive, the gradual descent of the hill of Life, lent it new and poignant significance. If Mark had forsworn all Randolph House included—and it held Betty Kirtling—what had he gained?
The well-bred grey between the shafts of the hansom sped on past the houses of the rich and mighty, and plunged into the roaring world of work. Here, on both sides of the street, in flaming gold letters for the most part, were the names of the successful strivers, the prosperous tradesmen, merchants, and bankers. Farther on, in Fleet Street, might be seen other names—those of the heralds and recorders of human effort—the famous newspapers. Jim's eyes sparkled, and his heart beat faster. For the moment he forgot the dun streets behind these resplendent thoroughfares—the interminable miles and miles of houses which shelter the millions who toil and moil out of sight and out of mind!
Passing the Mansion House, the grey knocked down a ragamuffin. Corrance was out of his cab in a jiffy, but the urchin scrambled up, apparently unhurt. Jim gave him half a crown and a scolding, much to the amusement of the burly policeman, who was of opinion that the young rascal might have done it on purpose. Jim was horrified. "Bless yer, sir, they'd do more than that to get a few coppers." These words stuck in his thoughts.
When he reached the Mission House he was received by one of the younger members—a deacon full of enthusiasm which flared, indeed, from every word he spoke. Corrance was struck by the lad's face—his bright complexion, clear eyes, and general air of sanity. Some of the men at the Mission were ill-equipped for the pleasures of life, and therefore, perhaps, more justified in accepting its pains in the hope of compensation hereafter. They, to be sure, would have repudiated indignantly the barter and sale of bodies and souls. None the less, the self-sacrifice of one pre-eminently qualified to win this world's prizes became the more remarkable.
"Samphire will be here in five minutes," said the young fellow. "Can I offer you anything—a whisky and soda, a cigarette?"
"If you will join me."