“How is he supported now? And the little girl?”
“It’s not over much of a support,” said Mrs. Cann with disparagement. “Not for him, that’s a-craving for meat and drink every hour. The eldest brother is in business in London, sir, and he sends them what they have. Perhaps he’s not able to do more.”
It was not late. I thought I would, for once, pay Mrs. Everty a visit. A run of three minutes, and I was at her door.
They were there—the usual set. Tod, and Richardson, and Lord Gaiton, and the two men from Magdalen, and—well, it’s no use enumerating—seven or eight in all. Richardson and another were quarrelling at écarté, four were at whist; Tod was sitting apart with Sophie Chalk.
She was got up like a fairy at the play, in a cloud of thin white muslin; her hair hanging around and sparkling with gold dust, and little gleams of gold ornaments shining about her. If ever Joseph Todhetley had need to pray against falling into temptation, it was during the weeks of that unlucky term.
“This is quite an honour, Johnny Ludlow,” said Madame Sophie, rising to meet me, her eyes sparkling with what might have been taken for the most hearty welcome. “It is not often you honour my poor little room, sir.”
“It is not often I can find the time for it, Mrs. Everty. Tod, I came in to see whether you were ready to go in.”
He looked at his watch hastily, fearing it might be later than it was; and answered curtly and coolly.
“Ready?—no. I have not had my revenge yet at écarté.”
Approaching the écarté table, he sat down. Mrs. Everty drew a chair behind Lord Gaiton, and looked over his hand.