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Perhaps if young Barter had dreaded her less poor Bommaney's fallen notes might have been returned to him.
A man's dwelling-place is always an index to his character when its arrangement depends upon himself; and signs of Philip Bommaney's nature and pursuits were visible in plenty here. There were symmetrical rows of books on the shelves flanking the fire-place.
Bommaney's bell rang, he himself ushered the visitor upstairs, and in place of retiring to his own pew below stairs, lingered in a desert little apartment rarely used, and then stole out upon the landing and listened. He was the more prompted to this because the visitor, who had a bucolic hearty aspect, and was very talkative, had told him downstairs that Mr.
The letter written, enveloped, addressed, and stamped, Steinberg tossed it on one side, and leaning back in his arm-chair, turned an uninterested look once more upon his visitor. 'That affair of Bommaney's, he said. 'What was that? Mr. Barter thought this inquiry altogether too barefaced, and responded, with a hectic flush of courage, 'Come, Steinberg, don't play the fool with a fellow.
'I could see how moved you were by the news of my father's illness. The door stood open, and the old-fashioned man-servant within had been in the act of closing it upon Bommaney's retreating figure when cab number two had driven up, and the young master of the house had alighted from it. 'Is the news worse or better? He laid both hands upon Bommaney's arms as he put this question.
Barter, in much astonishment at his susceptibility and tenderness, sat watching him. Something slid from Bommaney's hands with a rustle, and dropped upon the floor. Young Mr. Barter made a mere hint or beginning of a movement, as if he would have picked it up for him.
The striking of a wax vesta at the door of the chambers, the shaky hunt for the key, the well-known obstinacy of the lock, the opening of the door, the fevered working of Bommaney's fingers, and the flushed eagerness of his face, were all memorable to young Barter for many and many a day.
'About that affair of Bommaney's, he said, feeling as if a rapid wheel had been somehow started in his brain. 'Ah! said Steinberg, writing rapidly, and speaking in a voice which seemed to indicate that he neither understood nor cared to understand, 'that affair of Bommaney's, eh? This reception was nothing less than dreadful to the young criminal.
The visitor was laughing and rubbing his hands again in perfect happiness and self-contentment, and had no eye for Bommaney's abstraction. 'Yes, he said, 'it's Patty's doing. I've sold up every stick and stone, and I've taken a house in Gower Street. Do you know, Bommaney, he added, with an air and voice suddenly serious and confidential, 'the country's going to the devil.
Before he had owned it a fortnight, he had felt a hundred times he could have burned it out of the exasperation of mere spite against it. He heard, of course, of Bommaney's flight, and of the failure of the old-established business house.
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