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They sounded important, though, and it would be only polite to unearth them. I connected them with the 'few repairs' and awoke new misgivings. At the Stores I asked for a No. 3 Rippingille stove, and was confronted with a formidable and hideous piece of ironmongery, which burned petroleum in two capacious tanks, horribly prophetic of a smell of warm oil.
Shaking hands once more at the door, Rippingille took his way, with somewhat faltering step, to his lodgings in Oxford Street; while Clare, rather more steady in his gait, went straight to Mrs. Emmerson's residence. He discovered Stratford Place with the help of a sympathetic watchman; but was unable to get an entrance into his temporary home. Mrs.
He found few friends, or men he liked, among the authors; but more among the painters into whose company he was thrown. With some of them he struck an intimate acquaintance, particularly with Mr. Rippingille, an artist of some note in his day.
They both vowed eternal love to the fair actress, and, as a commencement, Rippingille drew her portrait, after the dictate of his fancy, while Clare added to it a passionate effusion in verse. The artistic-poetical gift was duly despatched to Mademoiselle Dalia, but elicited no reply.
It might have been difficult to carry out these orders; but, fortunately, friend Rippingille, the painter, was drinking pale ale at Bristol for the season, so that Clare, having nobody to lead him through his favourite taverns and concert-rooms, and being still afraid to hazard alone into the whirlpool of London life, was almost compelled to stop at home. For the first few days the sojourn at Mr.
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