"I'll write to Monsieur Meriste about my furniture," he said to the guardian of the big dreary mansion. "You may as well come to the station with us, George," he added, looking at Mr. Fairfax, who stood irresolute on the pavement, while Bessie and the boys were being packed into the vehicle, the roof of which was laden with portmanteaus and the painter's "plant."
"Well—no; I think not. There's this letter to be delivered, you see. I had better do that at once."
"True; Clarissa might come. She said five o'clock, though; but it doesn't matter. Good-bye, old fellow. I hope some of these days I may be able to make things square with you. Good-bye. Tell Clary I shall write to her from Brussels, under cover to the maid as usual."
He called out to the coachman to go on; and the carriage drove off, staggering under its load. George Fairfax stood watching it till it was out of sight, and then turned to the porter.
"Those rooms up-stairs will be to let, I suppose?" he said.
"But certainly, monsieur."
"I have some thoughts of taking them for—for a friend. I'll just take another look round them now they're empty. And perhaps you wouldn't mind my writing a letter up-stairs—eh?"
He slipped a napoleon into the man's hand—by no means the first that he had given him. New-Year's day was not far past; and the porter remembered that Mr. Fairfax had tipped him more liberally than some of the lodgers in the house. If monsieur had a legion of letters to write, he was at liberty to write them. The rooms up yonder were entirely at his disposal; the porter laid them at his feet, as it were. He might have occupied them rent-free for the remainder of his existence, it would have been supposed from the man's manner.
"If madame, the sister of Monsieur Austin, should come by-and-by, you will permit her to ascend," said Mr. Fairfax. "I have a message for her from her brother."
"Assuredly, monsieur."