Bobby Ravenshaw had chosen to live in Pactolus Mansions because it was the cheapest place he could get near the gayest place in town.
Bobby was an orphan, an Oxford man without a degree, and with a taste for literature and fine clothes. Absolutely irresponsible. Five hundred a year, derived from Simon, of whose only sister he was the son, and an instinct for bridge that was worth another two hundred and fifty supported Bobby in a lame sort of way, assisted by friends, confiding tailors and bootmakers, and a genial moneylender who was also a cigar merchant.
Bobby had started in life a year or two ago with cleverness of no mean order and the backing of money, but Fate had dealt him out two bad cards: a nature that was charming and irresponsible, and good looks. Girls worshipped Bobby, and if his talents had only cast him on the stage their worship might have helped. As it was, it hindered, for Bobby was a literary man, and no girl has ever bought a book on the strength of the good looks of the author.
His tea having arrived, Bobby drank it, finished the chapter in Monte Cristo and then rose and dressed.
He was leaving Pactolus Mansions that day for the very good reason that, if he wished to stay beyond twelve o'clock, he would have to pay a month's rent in advance, and he only had thirty shillings.
Uncle Simon had "foreclosed." That was Bobby's expression, a month ago. For a month Bobby had watched the sands running down; no more money to come in and all the time money running out. Absolutely unalarmed, and only noticing the fact as he might have noticed a change in the weather, he had made no provision, trusting to chance, to bridge that betrayed him, and to friends. Literature could not help. He had got into a wrong groove as far as moneymaking went. Little articles for literary papers of limited circulation and a really cultivated taste are not the immediate means to financial support in a world that devours its fictional literature like ham sandwiches, forgotten as soon as eaten—and only fictional literature pays.
He was thinking more of Monte Cristo than of his own position as he dressed. The fact that he had to look out for other rooms worried him as an uncomfortable business to be performed, but not much. If he couldn't get other rooms that day he could always stay with Tozer. Tozer was an Oxford man with chambers in the Albany—chambers always open to Bobby at any hour. A sure stand-by in trouble.
Then, having dressed, he took his hat and stick and the sovereign and half-sovereign lying on the mantel, tipped the servant the half-sovereign, and ordered that his things should be packed and his luggage taken to the office to be left till he called for it.
"I'm going to the country," said Bobby, "and I'll send my address for letters to be forwarded."
Then he started.