"Oh! railway from Broad Street. I've looked it up. Victoria Park's the station."
Dick drew two or three draughts of smoke from his cigar-butt, and laid it down in a small silver tray at his elbow. (The tray was a gift from the old lady he had lunched with to-day.)
"All you've told me is extraordinarily interesting," he said. "It really was to get away this girl that he's stopped so long?"
"I expect that's what he tells himself—that's the handle, so to speak. But it's chiefly a sort of obstinacy. He said he would go on the roads, and so he's gone."
"I rather like that, you know," said Dick.
Jack snorted a little.
"Oh, it's better than saying a thing and not doing it. But why say it?"
"Oh! one must do something," said Dick. "At least, some people seem to think so. And I rather envy them, you know. I'm afraid I don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't do anything. Unless you can call this sort of thing doing something." He waved his hand vaguely round his perfectly arranged room.