“That’s only a prelude to good luck,” said Myddleton West, with new optimism. He seemed to be taking cheerful views of the world; appeared brighter than in the old days, and the lad felt inclined to resent it. “Providence is very fair in a general way.”
Turning into a dim, insignificant passage off Fleet Street, they found a doorway, as if by accident, which led them (also, as it seemed, by a series of misadventures) to a square old-fashioned dining-room of the early Victorian type. Several men were seated at the wooden tables eating; two or three Americans with note-books were being supplied by one of the old waiters with a quantity of new and incorrect information about the old eating-house, enlivened by rare anecdotes of celebrities. In five minutes there was set before West and Robert Lancaster a small mountain made up of admirable strata of pigeons, of oysters, and of steak. Robert began by gazing absently at the dish before him, and thinking about Trixie; the smell of appetizing food changed his thoughts, and he presently set to with admirable appetite.
“My great news can easily be told,” said Myddleton West across the table. “I was married last week.”
“Good business!” remarked Robert. “Who is the lady, sir?”
“There is but one.”
“But I thought she’d decided—”
“They never do that,” remarked West.
“She used to like talking about you, sir, to me when I was in the hospital. I always thought it would ’appen some day.”
“I’m ordered out to some God-forsaken place in Siberia,” said Myddleton West. “They are making a new railway, and there’s a lot of excitement, I believe. Miss Margaret was good enough to insist upon marrying me, before I went. When I come back my wife will give up her nursing business and we are going to settle down and enjoy life.”
“Good deal to be said for the old fashions,” said Robert wisely. “Independence is all very well, but I don’t like to see it carried too far. Not with the ladies at any rate,” he added.