It wanted a quarter to nine in the morning, when Charles entered the office, warm with the speed at which he had walked. He did all that he was put to do, and did it correctly. If Mr. Stroud did not praise, he did not grumble.
When told at one o'clock that he might go to dinner, Charles made his way to the more sheltered parts in the precincts of the Temple, and surreptitiously ate the bread-and-cheese that he had brought from home in his pocket. That was eaten long and long before the time had expired when he would be expected to go in again: but he did not like to appear earlier, lest some discerning clerk should decide he had not been to dinner at all. It was frightfully dull and dreary here, the bitterly cold wind whistling down the passages and round the corners; so he turned into the open streets: they, at least, were lively with busy traversers: and walked about the Strand.
"I must go and see Peter Hartley, to tell him of my success and thank him; for it is to him I owe it," thought Charles, as he left the office in the evening. "Let me see! The address was somewhere near Mecklenburgh Square."
Taking out a small note-case, in which the address was entered, he halted at a street corner whilst he turned its leaves: some one came round the corner hastily, and Charles found himself in contact with William Stane. The gas in the streets and shops made it as light as day: no chance had they to pretend not to see each other. A bow, coldly exchanged, and each passed on his way.
"I won't notice him at all, if we meet again," said Charles to himself. And it might have been that Mr. Stane was saying the same thing. "Now for Doughty Street. I wonder which is the way to it?" deliberated he.
"Does Mr. Hartley live here?" inquired Charles of the young maid-servant, when he had found the house.
"In the parlour," replied the girl, pointing to a room on her left.
Without further ceremony, she went away, leaving him to introduce himself. A voice, that he supposed was Peter's, bade him "come in," in answer to his knock.
But he could not see Peter. A young fellow was stretched on the sofa in front of the fire. Charles rightly judged him to be the brother, Frederick Hartley. Young men are not, as a rule, very observant of one another, but Charles was struck with the appearance of the one before him. He was extremely good-looking; with fair hair, all in disorder, that shone like threads of gold in the firelight, glistening blue eyes, and a hectic flush on his thin cheeks.
"I beg your pardon," said Charley, as the invalid—for such he evidently was—half rose and gazed at him. "I came to see Peter."