Like many others, I found my sudden acquisition of wealth had made me not a whit the more contented than when I was compelled to write for an existence. Still, I was a thorough-going Bohemian, and never happier than when amongst that free-and-easy artistic circle that made the Junior Garrick its headquarters.
For years Nugent had been my particular chum, and had frequently been the means of getting my articles accepted when I was more than usually hard-up; and now, in my affluence, I did not fail to remember the many services my old friend had rendered me.
As we sat together under the stars I was confiding to him how discontented I had felt of late.
“Well, my dear fellow, there’s only one remedy,” said Bob, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.
“And what’s that?”
“Get married.”
“Marriage be hanged! I couldn’t settle down; besides, it is not my intention to forge the matrimonial gyves just yet. The fact is, Bob, I’m not well. I believe this horrible murder has given me a touch of the blues, and nothing but an entire change will rid me of it. I’m bored with everything, and with myself most of all. It may seem strange, but I have no object in life, except merely to exist. Once I envied fellows with money, but, by Jove, I don’t now.”
“Then what is your intention?”
“To go abroad; and I want you to accompany me.”
“I should be only too pleased, providing I could get away, but I have a great deal of work on hand which I must finish,” replied Nugent.