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Updated: May 24, 2025
'Haven't seen or heard of them lately. What is it? 'Then you don't know that they have parted? 'Parted? 'I only heard about it last night; Biffen told me. Reardon is doing clerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the East-end, and his wife has gone to live at her mother's house. 'Ho, ho! exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. 'Then the crash has come. Of course I knew it must be impending.
He shook hands silently, hung his hat in the passage, and came forward into the study. His name was Harold Biffen, and, to judge from his appearance, he did not belong to the race of common mortals.
I'm pretty sure there wasn't another room like his in the whole school. No end of swell pictures foreign mostly; lovely little books, which, I believe, were foreign also; an etching of his own place up in Yorkshire; carpets, and rugs, and little statuettes swagger through and through; a little too much so, I believe, for the rules, but Biffen evidently had not put his foot down.
By dint of violent effort Biffen moved forward yard by yard. A tongue of flame which suddenly illumined the fronts of the houses put an end to his doubt. 'Let me get past! he shouted to the gaping and swaying mass of people in front of him. 'I live there! I must go upstairs to save something! His educated accent moved attention.
The kids weep when they're put down for Biffen's. Give a dog a bad name " "But why the bad name?" "Dunno! Perhaps it's Biffen. I think so, anyhow. At any rate, there's not been a fellow from the house in the Lord's eleven or in the footer eleven, and in the schools Biffen's crowd always close the rear. By the way, how did you come among our rout?"
'I am here, Edwin, she answered, bending over him. 'Will you let Biffen know? he said in low but very clear tones. 'That you are ill dear? I will write at once, or telegraph, if you like. What is his address? He had closed his eyes again, and there came no reply. Amy repeated her question twice; she was turning from him in hopelessness when his voice became audible.
'The first duty of a novelist is to tell a story: the perpetual repetition of this phrase is a warning to all men who propose drawing from the life. Biffen only offered a slice of biography, and it was found to lack flavour. He wrote to Mrs Reardon: 'I cannot thank you enough for this very kind letter about my book; I value it more than I should the praises of all the reviewers in existence.
The remaining words were indistinguishable, and, as if the effort of utterance had exhausted him, his eyes closed, and he sank into lethargy. When he came down from his bedroom on the following morning, Biffen was informed that his friend had died between two and three o'clock. At the same time he received a note in which Amy requested him to come and see her late in the afternoon.
The officer recognised a man who was standing half-dressed on a threshold close by; he stepped up to him and made representations which were successful. In a few minutes Biffen took possession of an underground room furnished as a bedchamber, which he agreed to rent for a week.
There was no bookcase, but a few hundred battered volumes were arranged some on the floor and some on a rough chest. The weather was too characteristic of an English spring to make an empty grate agreeable to the eye, but Biffen held it an axiom that fires were unseasonable after the first of May.
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