He repented of his resolution almost as soon as he had made it. What was to be gained by assuming a false position for an evening, and trying to delude himself into the notion that he was the equal of his old comrade? Did not his clothes, his empty pockets, the smart of Durfy’s tongue, and even the letter now on its way to Mr Medlock, all disprove it? And yet, three months ago, he was a better man all round than Blandford, who had been glad to claim his friendship and accept his father’s hospitality. Reginald rebelled against the idea that they two could still be anything to one another than the friends they had once been; but all the while the old school saw came back into his mind—that imposition sentence he had in his day written out hundreds of times without once thinking of its meaning: Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis.
He reached the Shades a few minutes before seven, and waited outside till his friend arrived. He had not to wait long, for Blandford and a couple of companions drove up punctually in a hansom—all of them, to Reginald’s horror, being arrayed in full evening dress.
“Hullo, Cruden, you’ve turned up then,” said Blandford. “What, not in regimentals? You usen’t to be backward in that way. Never mind; they say dress after seven o’clock here, but they’re not strict. We can smuggle you in.”
Oh, how Reginald wished he was safe back in Dull Street!
“By the way,” continued Blandford, “these are two friends of mine, Cruden—Mr Shanklin and Mr Pillans. Cruden’s an old Wilderham fellow, you know,” he added, in an explanatory aside.
The gentleman introduced as Mr Shanklin stared curiously at Reginald for a few seconds, and then shook hands. Had the boy known as much of that gentleman as the reader does, he would probably have displayed considerably more interest in his new acquaintance than he did. As it was, he would have been glad of an excuse to avoid shaking hands with either him or his empty-headed companion, Mr Pillans. He went through the ceremony as stiffly as possible, and then followed the party within.
“Now, then,” said Blandford, as they sat down at one of the tables, “what do you say? It’ll save trouble to take the table d’hôte, eh? are you game, you fellows? Table d’hôte for four, waiter. What shall we have to drink? I say hock to start with.”
“I wont take any wine,” said Reginald, with an effort.
“Why not? You’re not a teetotaler, are you?”
“I won’t take any wine,” repeated Reginald decisively; and, to his satisfaction, he was allowed to do as he pleased.