A scientific arrangement of firebrick had been adapted to the roomy old grate since Mrs. Rawber’s tenancy, and it now held a minimum of fuel.
‘Yes, Mr. Gerard, I very much want half-an-hour’s talk with you.’
‘I can give you just half-an-hour before I start for my day’s work,’ answered Gerard, with a business-like air and a glance at the neat little clock on the chimney-piece.
The room was curiously changed since Mrs. Rawber’s occupation. It had then appeared the model of the vulgar lodging-house parlour. It now looked the room of a student. George Gerard had been able to spend very little money on the decoration of his apartments, but he had lined the walls with deal shelves, and the shelves were filled with books; such volumes as your genuine book-hunter collects with loving toil in the lanes and by-ways of London. He had put a substantial, old-fashioned writing table in the window, a pair of comfortable arm-chairs by the hearth, a skeleton clock, and a couple of bronze figures—picked up in one of the back slums of Covent Garden for a song—on the mantelpiece. The general effect was of a room which a gentleman might occupy without a blush.
Edward Clare saw all this, not without a sharp pang of envy. He recognised, in the capacity to endure such an existence, the power to climb the rugged hill of fame.
‘This is the kind of fellow to succeed in life,’ he thought. ‘But one can’t expect this dogged endurance in a man of poetic temperament.’
‘Do you wish to consult me professionally?’ asked Gerard.
‘No. What I have to say relates to a very serious matter, but it is neither a professional question for you, nor a personal affair of mine. You knew the Chicots.’
It was Gerard’s turn to be interested. He looked at the speaker with sudden intensity, which brightened every feature in his face.
‘Yes. What of them? Did you know them? I never saw you here when she was ill. You knew them in Paris, perhaps?’