As Walter walked along the Strand that morning he meditated on many ways of improving his condition and at the same time of not overworking himself. He found that it told on him considerably to be down late at the office three nights a week, writing his article, and then, with the excitement of work still upon him, to go home tired and hungry in the small hours of the morning. It was bad for Florence, too, for she generally sat up for him, declaring that to taste his supper and to have a little chat with him did her good and made her heart light. Sometimes he thought he would take up a different line altogether (he knew his editor would aid and abet him in anything for his good) and try living in the country, running up to town every day if necessary. But this would never do; it would only make him restive. His position was not yet strong enough to admit of his taking things so easily. It was important to him to live among men of knowledge and influence, to be in the whirl and twirl of things, and London was essentially the bull’s-eye, not only of wealth and commerce, but of most other things with which men of all degrees concern themselves.
And when he got to this point he came to the conclusion that he was thinking too much about himself. After all, he only wanted a month’s rest or a couple of months’ change of air; a friendly talk such as he might possibly get in the next quarter of an hour would probably bring about one or the other and in a far better form than he himself could devise it. Mr. Fisher was a man of infinite resource, not merely in regard to his paper, but for himself and his friends too, when they consulted him about their personal affairs. It was one of his characteristics that he liked being consulted. Walter felt that the best thing would be to get away alone with Florence, to some place where the climate had no cause to be ashamed of itself: he wanted to be sated with sunshine. It was no good going alone, and no matter how pleasant a friend went with him, a time always came when he wanted to go by one route and the friend by another. “Now, your wife,” he thought, “not only particularly longs to go by your route, but thinks you a genius for finding it out.”
He stopped for a moment to look at a bookshop; there was a box of second-hand books outside; he hesitated, but remembered that he had no time to stay. As he turned away some one touched him on the arm, and a voice said doubtfully—
“Will you speak to me, Walter?” He looked up and instantly held out his hand with a smile.
“Why, it’s Wimple,” he said; “how are you, old fellow? Of course I’ll speak to you. How are you?”
The man who had stopped him was about eight-and-twenty; he was tall and thin, his legs were too long and very rickety. To look at he was not prepossessing; he had a pinky complexion, pale reddish hair, and small round dark eyes with light lashes and weak lids. On either side of his face there were some straggling whiskers; his lips were thin and his whole expression very grave. His voice was low but firm in its tone, as though he wished to convey that even in small matters it would be useless to contradict him. He wore rather shabby dark clothes, his thin overcoat was unbuttoned and showed that the undercoat was faced with watered silk that had worn a little shiny; attached to his waistcoat was a watchguard made of brown hair ornamented here and there with bright gold clasps. He did not look strong or very flourishing. He was fairly gentleman-like, but only fairly so, and he did not look very agreeable. The apparent weakness of his legs seemed to prevent him from walking uprightly; he looked down a good deal at the toes of his boots, which were well polished. The oddest thing about him was that with all his unprepossessing appearance he had a certain air of sentiment; occasionally a sentimental tone stole into his voice, but he carefully repressed it. Walter remembered the moment he looked at him that the brown hair watchguard had been the gift of a pretty girl, the daughter of a tailor to whom he had made love as if in compensation for not paying her father’s bill. He wondered how it had ended, whether the girl had broken her heart for him, or found him out. But the next moment he hated himself for his ungenerous thoughts, and forcing them back spoke in as friendly a voice as he could manage. “It’s ages since we came across each other,” he said, “and I should not have seen you just now if you had not seen me.”
“I wasn’t sure whether you would speak to me,” Mr. Wimple said solemnly, as they walked on together, and then almost hurriedly, as if to avoid thinking about unpleasant things, he asked, “How is your wife?”
“All right, thank you. But how are you, and how are you getting on?”
“I am not at all well, Walter”—Mr. Wimple coughed, as if to show that he was delicate—“and my uncle has behaved shamefully to me.”
“Why, what has he done?” Walter asked, wishing that he felt more cordial, for he had known Alfred Wimple longer almost than he had known any one. Old acquaintance was not to be lightly put aside. It constituted a claim in Walter’s eyes as strong as did relationship, though it was only when the claim was made on him, and never when he might have pressed it for his own advantage, that he remembered it.