“I have looked in for one minute on the subject of that—grate,” said the agent. “Do not disturb yourself, I beg. Well, I see that Mrs. Grover is duly in her place, and you as snug here as a bird in its nest.”
“So snug,” said David, “that I feel stifled. It beats me how people can get so accustomed to this sort of prison as not even to remember any longer that they are in prison. No air, no room to stretch, coal-dust in your very soul, and even at night in your bed!”
“Dash it all, don’t say it.”
“Say what?”
“Were you about to refer to any fresh experiences?”
“Of the ghost? Not a bit of it!” said David. “I have seen, heard, or smelled nothing more of anything.”
“Good, good!” went on Dibbin, softly. “Keep on like that, and we shall pull through yet. I find you are well stocked with violets, meantime.”
David laughed a little uneasily, and said “Yes”—no more. Whiffs of violets in a lonely flat, for which one can’t account, are not altogether pleasant things. David had therefore surrounded himself with violets, in order, when he was greeted with a scent of violets, to be able to say to himself that the scent came from those which he had bought. He had not admitted even to himself what his motive was in buying; nor would he admit it to Mr. Dibbin. There, however, the violets were in several pots, and their fragrance at once drew the notice of a visitor, for the London florist has an art to heighten dull nature in violets and much else.
“Have a seat, Mr. Dibbin,” said David, “and let us talk.”
“I am afraid I must be off,” began the other.