I expect Ruddock to sing. He doesn't. Mr. Clether is talking to him. I join them. I am anxious to hear what Mr. Clether's view of the Moon is. He replies, "O, nothing particular."
"But," I urge, Ruddock listening, "You have made a study of astronomy, and in these days"—I slip at this moment, because I don't know exactly what I was going to say; but I rather fancy it was that "In these days the moon isn't what it was."
Mr. Clether modestly repudiates knowing more about the moon than other people, and says that Pendell is right about his having written a book, but he has never published it.
"Why?" asks Miss Straithmere, joining us.
Carriages. Thank goodness!
I accompany Ruddock to the door. He has a gig, and a lantern, like a Guy Fawkes out for an airing.
I am still expecting a witticism, or rather a feu de joie of humour and fun, like the last grand bouquet of fireworks that terminates the show at the Crystal Palace.
Pendell (who I believe is still drawing him out) says to him, "You'll have a fine night for your drive," then looks at me and laughs, as much as to say, "Now you'll hear him, now it's coming. He's shy before a party, but now——"
Ruddock replies, from above, in his gig, "Yes, so it seems. Good-bye."
And away goes the vehicle, turns the corner, and disappears from view in the avenue.