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Updated: June 6, 2025
"Come and see me, and I'll cook you a chop," continued the other. "I've had the kitchen range brought up into the back drawing-room; saves going up and down stairs." "The devil you have!" growled old Deleglise. "What do you think the owner of the house will say?" "Haven't the least idea who the poor old duffer is myself.
"Oh, come, it's not as bad as that," suggested old Deleglise. "Not bad! There isn't a laugh in it from beginning to end." "There wasn't intended to be," I interrupted. "Why not, you swindler? What were you sent into the world to do? To make it laugh." "I want to make it think," I told him. "Make it think! Hasn't it got enough to think about?
Fortune grows old and wrinkled, frowns more often than she smiles. We become indifferent to her, quarrel with her, make it up again. But the joy of her first kiss after the long wooing! Burn it into your memory, my young friend, that it may live with you always!" He strolled away. Old Deleglise took up the parable. "Ah, yes; one's first success, Paul! Laugh, my boy, cry!
I thought it better to put the thing straight. I shall get the money back from him when he returns. A most amusing little man!" Old Deleglise possessed a house in Gower Street which fell vacant. One of his guests, a writer of poetical drama, was a man who three months after he had earned a thousand pounds never had a penny with which to bless himself.
The immediate present thus provided for, kindly old Deleglise worried himself a good deal concerning what would become of his friend when the house was let. There appeared to be no need for worry. Weeks, months went by. Applications were received by the agents in fair number, view cards signed by the dozen; but prospective tenants were never seen again.
The green leaves in summer, in winter the bare branches of the square, the sparrows that chirped about the window-sills, the quiet peace of the great house, Dan, kindly old Deleglise: around them my fibres clung, closer than I had known. The Lady of the train: she managed it now less clumsily. Her hands and feet had grown smaller, her elbows rounder.
In consequence, my thoughts I kept to myself. "My God, boy!" he would conclude, "may you never love as I loved that woman Miriam" or Henrietta, or Irene, as the case might be. For my sympathetic attitude towards the red-haired man I received one evening commendation from old Deleglise. "Good boy," said old Deleglise, laying his hand on my shoulder. We were standing in the passage.
Any friend of hers, of course, he was anxious to assist; but business was business. In justice to his proprietors, he could not and would not pay more than the market value. Miss Deleglise, replying curtly in the third person, found herself in perfect accord with Mr. Brian as to business being business. If Mr.
Brian could not afford to pay her price for material so excellent, other editors with whom Miss Deleglise was equally well acquainted could and would. Answer by return would greatly oblige, pending which the manuscript then in her hands she retained. Mr. Brian, understanding he had found his match, grumbled but paid.
He had a clear, musical voice, ever with the suggestion of a laugh behind it. He laid his hand upon my shoulder. "Why, you are looking as if you had come into a fortune," he added, "and didn't know what a piece of bad luck that can be to a young fellow like yourself." "How could it be bad luck?" I asked, laughing. "Takes all the sauce out of life, young man," answered Deleglise.
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