They regarded each other with a gaze of friendly criticism. Heriot noted with some surprise that the other's appearance savoured little of the American man of business, or of the man of business outside America. His hair, though less disordered than it had been in the Howland Street period, was still rather longer than is customary in the City. It was now grey, and became him admirably. He wore a black velvet jacket, and showed a glimpse of a deep crimson tie. He no longer looked a bohemian, but he had acquired the air of a celebrity.
"Have you come home for good, Cheriton?"
Cheriton shook his head.
"I guess America has got me for life," he answered; "I'm only making a trip. And you? You're still at the Bar, eh?"
"Oh, yes," said Heriot drily; "I'm still at the Bar." It is not agreeable, when you have succeeded in a profession, to be asked if you are in it still. "I've travelled along the lines on which you left me—it doesn't make an exciting narrative. Chambers, court, and bed. A laundress or two has died in the interval. The thing pays better than it used to do, naturally; that's all."
"You're doing well?"
"I should have called it 'doing well' once; but we are all Olivers in our hearts. To-day——"
"Mistake!" said the elder man. "You wanted the Bar—you've got the Bar; you ought to be satisfied. Now I——"
"Yes?" said Heriot, as he paused. "How's the world used you, Cheriton? By the way, you never answered my last letter, I think."
"It was you who didn't answer me."