“You mention your rooms,” said Phineas. “Are you residing permanently in London?”
“Yes,” said Doggie, sadly. “I never expect to leave it.”
A few minutes later they reached Woburn Place. Doggie showed Phineas into the sitting-room. The table was set for Doggie’s dinner. Phineas looked around him in surprise. The tasteless furniture, the dreadful pictures on the walls, the coarse glass and the well-used plate on the table, the crumpled napkin in a ring—all came as a shock to Phineas, who had expected to find Marmaduke’s rooms a reproduction of the fastidious prettiness of the peacock and ivory room in Durdlebury.
“Laddie,” he said, gravely, “you must excuse me if I take a liberty, but I cannot fit you into this environment. It cannot be that you have come down in the world?”
“To bed-rock,” replied Doggie.
“Man, I’m sorry,” said Phineas. “I know what coming down feels like. If I had money—”
Doggie broke in with a laugh. “Pray don’t distress yourself, Phineas. It’s not a question of money at all. The last thing in the world I’ve had to think of has been money.”
“What is the trouble?” Phineas demanded.
“That’s a long story,” answered Doggie. “In the meantime I had better give some orders about dinner.”
The dinner came in presently, not particularly well served. They sat down to it.