As he was passing down Piccadilly, he became aware of some one approaching him whom he knew, and whom, in another moment, he recognised as Blandford.
There was some excuse certainly for not taking in his old schoolfellow’s identity all at once, for the boy he had known at Wilderham only a few months ago had suddenly blossomed forth into a man, and had exchanged the airy bearing of a school-boy for the half-languid swagger of a man about town.
“Hullo, Bland, old man!” exclaimed Reginald, lighting up jubilantly at the sight of an old familiar face, “how are you? Who would have thought of seeing you?”
Blandford was surprised too, and for a moment critically surveyed the boy in front of him before he replied.
“Ah, Cruden, that you? I shouldn’t have known you.”
Reginald’s face fell. He became suddenly aware, and for the first time in his life, that his clothes were shabby, and that his boots were in holes.
“I shouldn’t have known you,” he replied; “you look so much older than when I saw you last.”
“So I am; but, I say,” added Bland, reddening as an acquaintance passed and nodded to him, “I’m rather in a hurry, Cruden, just now. If you’re not engaged this evening, come and dine with me at seven at the Shades, and we can have a talk. Good-bye.”
And he went on hurriedly, leaving Reginald with an uncomfortable suspicion that if he—Reginald—had been more smartly dressed, and had worn gloves and a tall hat, the interview would have been more cordial and less hasty.
However, the longing he felt for the old happy days that were past decided him to appear at the Shades at the hour appointed, although it meant absence from home on one of his few remaining evenings, and, still more, a further desertion of young Gedge.