Williamson smiled quietly at the gentleman who had spoken adversely of “Seeking New Homes,” and the critic laughed good-humouredly in return, tapped his hand upon the table, and said:—

“Ah, well! wait until your sensation novel appears, Williamson, and I’ll take it out of you, my friend.”

And then they all laughed; for who that knew Williamson’s lazy habit would ever expect him to write a story of eight or nine hundred pages? And if he did, who amongst his personal friends, that were critics, would have said an unkind word of him or his work?

He was a big-hearted, generous pet amongst all the men, this same journalistic barrister, and known amongst them all as “The Philanthropist.” It was a happy thing for Paul that the barrister was on a mission of benevolence at the Police Court on that memorable morning when he stood at the dock, and equally unlucky for Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs.

CHAPTER VI.
MRS. DIBBLE AND PAUL SOMERTON JOURNEY TO SEVERNTOWN.

It did not need much persuasion to induce Paul to accompany Mrs. Dibble on her projected journey to Severntown. He easily obtained permission to leave the Pyrotechnic for a couple of days, and on a miserable December morning they arrived at the famous city of Severntown—famous in the present day for many things: for its noble cathedral, as we have already intimated; for its grand old river, its clean broad streets and its narrow dirty ones, through which a king was chased by Cromwellian troops.

A city to be proud of this same Severntown—to be proud of for its historical associations, its eminent men and women, ancient and modern; a city surrounded by a beautiful country, studded with the seats of noblemen, whose four-in-hands are still oftentimes seen rattling over the white road-ways; a city that was wont, in ancient days, to have unusually fierce election contests, and which is now settling down into moderate opinions, and throwing its latent political fire into commercial enterprise. It manufactures all kinds of things which have a strange sound when mentioned together, such as steam-engines and porcelain, pickles and horse-hair, carriages and sauce, fire-grates and shirt-studs, gin and boots, and other machines, condiments, ornaments, spirits, and wearing apparel. It has quarrels about sewers, the price of gas, and the state of the streets, like all other provincial towns, and a long dirty road to the railway station.

There was a row of six cabs and an antique sort of bus at the railway station, and several ragged youngsters who offered to carry the travellers’ carpet-bags.

Close by the station Paul detected a comfortable-looking inn, into which inn he and Mrs. Dibble directed their steps—not that Mrs. Dibble approved of inns, for she did not, as she told Paul over and over again, although in the course of business her father had been called upon to build several establishments of the kind, and the specifications had gone through her hands; but no doubt they were necessary sometimes, and she thought they were justified in taking up their abode at one, and having something hot and some tea at this inn in particular, and on the shortest possible notice; so Paul ordered the refreshment whilst Mrs. Dibble, struggling under a load of shawls and comforters and rugs, was shown to her room.

If Mrs. Dibble had had the smallest compunction about entering the railway tavern, she had no hesitation about the chops and the tea and the muffins and watercress, which she was liberal enough to commend, giving very practical illustrations of her approval of the fare, and all the time talking of her poor appetite, and telling Paul how seriously Mr. Dibble’s conduct had injured her health. She became so confidential upon this point, and at length felt herself so much at home that she permitted the hooks-and-eyes nearest her chin to disengage themselves, and insisted upon Paul joining her in just sixpenny-worth of spirits-and-water before they ventured out in the cold to discover the yard by the Blue Posts Inn.