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Updated: May 24, 2025
Both were in a state of depression as they left the house. 'What think you of this story? asked Biffen. 'Is this possible in a woman of any merit? 'Anything is possible in a woman, Reardon replied, harshly. They walked in silence as far as Portland Road Station.
During the winter Biffen always disappeared, nobody knew where, returning at the beginning of Sports Week to begin preparations for the following cricket season. It had been stated that during the winter he shut himself up and lived on himself after the fashion of a bear. Others believed that he went and worked in some Welsh mine until he was needed again at the School.
It was the nearest he could come to a question concerning the future of Amy and her husband. 'Everything is still quite uncertain. But tell me something about our old acquaintances. How does Mr Biffen get on? 'I scarcely ever see him, but I think he pegs away at an interminable novel, which no one will publish when it's done. Whelpdale I meet occasionally.
Amy saw that her husband wished to speak to her; she bent over him. 'Ask him to stay, dear. Give him a room in the hotel. 'I will. Biffen sat down by the bedside, and remained for half an hour. His friend inquired whether he had yet heard about the novel; the answer was a shake of the head.
Still Reardon did not speak. The cab rolled on almost silently. 'You love your wife, and this summons she sends is proof that her thought turns to you as soon as she is in distress. 'Perhaps she only thought it her duty to let the child's father know 'Perhaps perhaps perhaps! cried Biffen, contemptuously. 'There goes the razor again! Take the plain, human construction of what happens.
The stranger introduced himself as Harold Biffen, an author in a small way, and a teacher whenever he could get pupils; an abusive review had interested him in Reardon's novels, but as yet he knew nothing of them but the names. Their tastes were found to be in many respects sympathetic, and after returning to London they saw each other frequently.
It's that Briggs' the epithet was alliterative ''as upset his lamp, and I 'ope he'll well get roasted to death. Biffen leaped on to the threshold, and crashed against Mrs Willoughby, the landlady, who was carrying a huge bundle of household linen. 'I told you to look after that drunken brute; he said to her. 'Can I get upstairs? 'What do I care whether you can or not! the woman shrieked.
Behold me, undeniably a philosopher; in the literal sense of the words omnia mea mecum porto. He recounted his adventures, and with such humorous vivacity that when he ceased the two laughed together as if nothing more amusing had ever been heard. 'Ah, but my books, my books! exclaimed Biffen, with a genuine groan. 'And all my notes! At one fell swoop!
The reason, as soon as Reardon sought for it, was obvious. Biffen had no ordinary coat beneath the other. To have referred to this fact would have been indelicate; the novelist of course understood it, and smiled, but with no mirth. 'Let me have your Sophocles, were the visitor's next words. Reardon offered him a volume of the Oxford Pocket Classics. 'I prefer the Wunder, please.
Biffen presented his companion, and Mr Sykes greeted the novelist with much geniality. 'What do you think this is? he exclaimed, pointing to his work. 'The first instalment of my autobiography for the "Shropshire Weekly Herald." Anonymous, of course, but strictly veracious, with the omission of sundry little personal failings which are nothing to the point.
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