Mr. Fildew having shut the door of his lodgings behind him, walked slowly down the street with the preoccupied air of a man who is busily communing with himself. "I must ask Clem to lend me half a sovereign," he muttered. "The necessity is an unpleasant one, but there's no help for it. I feel certain I could have given that fellow last night a drubbing at a carom game, but he was too many for me at the spot stroke. Experientia docet."
Unfastening a couple of buttons of his frock-coat, Mr. Fildew inserted a thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket, and drew therefrom a sixpence. "My last coin," he murmured. "I really must not touch a cue again for another month."
Mr. Fildew was methodical in many of his habits. There was one tavern at which he made a point of calling within ten minutes of leaving home every afternoon. It had a little dark, private bar with cane-bottomed stools, where the gas was kept half turned on all day long. Here Punch and other comic papers were always to be found. Somehow, Mr. Fildew liked the place, but although he had called at it daily for years, no one behind the bar knew either his name or anything about him. He now pushed open the swing-doors and went in. In answer to his nod--there was no need for him to speak--the barman brought him fourpennyworth of brown brandy and cold water, together with a minute portion of cheese on the point of a knife. Mr. Fildew munched his cheese, glanced at the cartoon in Punch, sipped up his brandy-and-water, nodded a second time to the barman, and went.
Mr. Fildew walked jauntily along, whistling under his breath. The brandy had imparted a glow to his feelings and a glow to his imagination: the flame would soon drop down again, he knew, but he was philosopher enough to enjoy it while it lasted.
Elderly, shabby-genteel individuals are by no means scarce about the West End of London on sunny afternoons--inveterate flâneurs whose "better days" are over forever. But Mr. Fildew was something more than merely shabby-genteel there was about him a style, a carriage, an air undefinable, but not to be mistaken, of broken-down distinction, which induced many passers-by to turn and glance at him a second time as he "took" the pavement with his slow military stride, his eyes fixed straight before him, and his nose held high in air.
In a few minutes he found himself in Oxford Street. Crossing this as soon as there was a break in the string of vehicles, he took his way towards the mazes of Soho. Stopping at a certain door, he gave one loud rap with the knocker followed by two quick ones, and next moment the door opened, apparently of its own accord, and Mr. Fildew walked in, after which the door shut itself behind him. He had evidently been there before, for without a moment's hesitation he ascended the first flight of stairs, turned to the left down a short passage, and, opening a door at the end of it, found himself in a roomy and well-lighted studio.
Its only occupant was a very little bandy-legged man with a luxuriant crop of curly hair, who was sitting on a low stool in front of a big canvas, palette and brush in hand and a brier-root pipe between his teeth. John Fildew looked round with an air of disappointment.
"Clem not at home?" he asked of the little man.
"Oh, Mr. Fildew, is that you?" said the latter, turning quickly. "I thought it was Clem come back. He's gone to see Pudgin, the dealer. Won't be long, I dare say."
"This is the third time I've called and not found him at home."