And taking the arm of his companion, he led him in silence and at a brisk pace to the door of a quiet establishment in Rupert Street, Soho. The entrance was adorned with one of those gigantic Highlanders of wood which have almost risen to the standing of antiquities; and across the window-glass, which sheltered the usual display of pipes, tobacco, and cigars, there ran the gilded legend: “Bohemian Cigar Divan, by T. Godall.” The interior of the shop was small, but commodious and ornate; the salesman grave, smiling, and urbane; and the two young men, each puffing a select regalia, had soon taken their places on a sofa of mouse-coloured plush, and proceeded to exchange their stories.
“I am now,” said Somerset, “a barrister; but Providence and the attorneys have hitherto denied me the opportunity to shine. A select society at the Cheshire Cheese engaged my evenings; my afternoons, as Mr. Godall could testify, have been generally passed in this divan; and my mornings, I have taken the precaution to abbreviate by not rising before twelve. At this rate, my little patrimony was very rapidly and, I am proud to remember, most agreeably expended. Since then a gentleman, who has really nothing else to recommend him beyond the fact of being my maternal uncle, deals me the small sum of ten shillings a week; and if you behold me once more revisiting the glimpses of the street lamps in my favourite quarter, you will readily divine that I have come into a fortune.”
“I should not have supposed so,” replied Challoner. “But doubtless I met you on the way to your tailors.”
“It is a visit that I purpose to delay,” returned Somerset, with a smile. “My fortune has definite limits. It consists, or rather this morning it consisted, of one hundred pounds.”
“That is certainly odd,” said Challoner; “yes, certainly the coincidence is strange. I am myself reduced to the same margin.”
“You!” cried Somerset. “And yet Solomon in all his glory——”
“Such is the fact. I am, dear boy, on my last legs,” said Challoner. “Besides the clothes in which you see me, I have scarcely a decent trouser in my wardrobe; and if I knew how, I would this instant set about some sort of work or commerce. With a hundred pounds for capital, a man should push his way.”
“It may be,” returned Somerset; “but what to do with mine is more than I can fancy.—Mr. Godall,” he added, addressing the salesman, “you are a man who knows the world: what can a young fellow of reasonable education do with a hundred pounds?”
“It depends,” replied the salesman, withdrawing his cheroot. “The power of money is an article of faith in which I profess myself a sceptic. A hundred pounds will with difficulty support you for a year; with somewhat more difficulty you may spend it in a night; and without any difficulty at all you may lose it in five minutes on the Stock Exchange. If you are of that stamp of man that rises, a penny would be as useful; if you belong to those that fall, a penny would be no more useless. When I was myself thrown unexpectedly upon the world, it was my fortune to possess an art: I knew a good cigar. Do you know nothing, Mr. Somerset?”