“I don’t think I’d say that, if I were you,” said Comethup quietly. His hands were gripped closely behind him, and one foot was beating restlessly on the carpet. “You know I’ve always been ready to—to lend you anything in my power. There’s only one thing I’d like to say, and that is, I should be grateful if you wouldn’t say anything about it to any one else—to ’Linda, for instance.”
“You needn’t fear that; I’ve got my pride—possibly more of it than you possess. There! I don’t want to quarrel with you; only I suppose I’ve got a little soured when I could see no prospect of anything coming in. And money does go so devilish fast in London! Why, that hundred I had—you remember when I left poor old dad stranded without a halfpenny—it’s all gone long since. Poetry is not a paying game, my boy, and these days people don’t seem to believe in a poet who’s hidden away in dingy rooms like this. You see, I can’t ask any one to see me; the people I knew have lost sight of me, and I am in daily dread of being shelved altogether. A poet must remember his social duties, like every one else. While I go on at this rate I shall never make a splash—never do anything.”
“Yes, you’ll do well enough in time,” said Comethup, glancing uneasily toward the door. “As you want me to put the thing bluntly,” he added with a little laugh, “perhaps I may say that I’ve brought some money with me, and that more shall be forthcoming when that’s gone—until, of course, you’ve been able to make your ‘splash,’ as you term it, and can repay it.”
“Oh! of course, that will be all right; it’s bound to come sooner or later. That’s just the point; the things are talked about enough, and if I could once thrust my head in at society’s door and talk about them myself, I should be a made man. How much can you spare me?”
“Well, I don’t spend much myself, and I thought perhaps—say two hundred?”
“By Jove, you’re a good fellow! Pass it over. I must trump up a story to ’Linda about a sudden remittance from the publishers; women like to know the ins and outs of things.”
“Is—is she well?” asked Comethup carelessly, as he held out the notes to the other.
“Oh, yes, she’s well enough,” replied Brian. “Like most of her delightful sex, she’s possessed of a temper, and so am I, so that we don’t always pull together nicely in harness. But she’s very fond of me, and I—yes, I’m very fond of her. But, I say, you’d better be going, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, I think I’ll go,” replied Comethup. He picked up his hat, and looked for a moment round the room; he did not know when, if ever, he should see it again, and it was a wonderful place to him, poor though it was, because she lived there.
Brian went to the door, to ascertain if the coast was clear, and Comethup, shaking him hurriedly by the hand, ran downstairs and got into the street. Even then for a long time he could not leave the place, lingering unhappily up and down on the other side of the street, waiting to catch a glimpse of her again.