"Humphrey," said the Poet, "come to me in half an hour in the Workshop. This is a time for action."
It was only half-past ten, and the night was but just begun. He buttoned his dressing-gown across his chest, tightened the cord, and strode solemnly out of the room. The Painter heard his foot descend the stairs.
"Excellent Cornelius," he murmured, lighting his second pipe; "he lives but for others."
Joseph was sitting as usual before a pile of papers. It was quite true that Phillis was brightening up the life of this hard-working lawyer. His early breakfast was a time of pleasure; his walk to the office was not a solitary one; he looked forward to dinner; and he found the evenings tolerable. Somehow, Joseph Jagenal had never known any of the little agrèmens of life. From bed to desk, from desk to bed, save when a dinner-party became a necessity, had been his life from the day his articles were signed.
"You, Cornelius!" He looked up from his work, and laid down his pen. "This is unexpected."
"I am glad to find you, as usual, at work, Joseph. We are a hard-working family. You with law-books; poor Humphrey, and I with—— But never mind."
He sighed and sat down.
"Why poor Humphrey?"
"Joseph, we were happy before this young lady came."
"What has Phillis done? Why, we were then old fogies, with our bachelor ways; and she has roused us up a little. And again, why poor Humphrey?"