'We'll talk it over. Well, good-bye. Don't forget old Dick.'
Fenwick walked on, fuming. Cuningham, he said to himself, was now the type of busy, pretentious mediocrity, the type which eternally keeps English art below the level of the Continent.
'I say—one moment! Have you had any news of the Findons lately?'
Fenwick turned sharply, and again saw Cuningham, whose hansom had been blocked by the traffic, close to the pavement. He was hanging over the door, and smiling.
In reply to the question, Fenwick merely shook his head.
'I had a capital letter from her ladyship a week or two ago,' said
Cuningham, raising his voice, and bringing himself as near to Fenwick
as his position allowed. 'The old fellow seems to be as fit as ever.
But Madame de Pastourelles must be very much changed.'
Fenwick said nothing. It might have been thought that the traffic prevented his hearing Cuningham's remark. But he had heard distinctly.
'Do you know when they'll be home?' he asked, reluctantly, walking beside the hansom.
'No—haven't an idea. I believe I'm to go to them for Easter. Ah!—now we go on. Ta-ta!'
He waved his hand, and the hansom moved away.