They walked together to the Vicarage. Mr. and Mrs. Clare and Celia were still at the Manor House, where the Christmas-tree was being stripped by the tumultuous infants, with shouts of rapture and shrill screams of delight. Edward had slipped out directly he had finished the ‘Jackdaw,’ under the pretence of smoking a cigar, and had gone round to the front of the house to watch for the unknown visitor’s departure.
The Vicarage was wrapped in darkness, save in the servants’ quarters, where some mild rejoicings were in progress. Edward let himself in at the hall door, and went up to his den, followed by Mr. Desrolles. The fire had burnt low, but there was a basket of wood by the hearth. Edward flung on a log, and lighted the candles on the table. Then he opened a cosy little corner cupboard in the panelling, and took out a black bottle, a couple of tumblers, and a sugar basin.
‘If your whisky’s good, don’t trouble to mix it,’ said Desrolles; ‘I’d rather taste it neat.’
He settled himself comfortably in the chair beside the hearth, the poet’s own particular rocking-chair, in which he was wont to cradle his fine fancies, and sometimes hush his genius to placid slumber.
‘A tidy little crib,’ said Desrolles, looking curiously round the room, with all its masculine luxuries and feminine frivolities. ‘I wonder you should speak so disparagingly of a village in which you’ve such snug quarters.’
‘The grub is snug in his cocoon,’ retorted Edward, ‘but that isn’t life.’
‘No. Life is to be a butterfly, at the mercy of every wind that blows. I think on the whole the grub has the best of it.’
‘Help yourself,’ said Edward, pushing the whisky bottle across the table to his visitor.
Desrolles filled a glass and emptied it at a draught. ‘New and raw,’ he said, disapprovingly. ‘Well, Mr. ——. By the way, you did not favour me with your card when last we met.’
‘My name is Clare.’