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There was a remarkable freedom from snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon's intellectual superiority had long ago counteracted Carter's social prejudices. 'I should like to have a word with you. 'Right you are! They went into a small inner room. Reardon's pulse beat at fever-rate; his tongue was cleaving to his palate.
A want of heartiness in Reardon's reception of him might have been explained as gravity natural under the circumstances. But Jasper had before this become conscious that he was not welcomed here quite so cheerily as in the old days.
Hence, in the event that one sought to whistle up the other, he merely wasted his breath. Having learned, on the very excellent authority of both men in the case, that they despised each other and were not on speaking terms, von Staden decided that the chance of Terence Reardon's listening to Michael J. Murphy's tale of piracy and mutiny was so vague as to be almost negligible.
'Have you published anything with your signature, Miss Yule? Jasper at length inquired. 'Nothing. I only help father a little. The silence that again followed was broken this time by Marian. 'When you chanced to mention Mr Reardon's name, she said, with a diffident smile in which lay that suggestion of humour so delightful upon a woman's face, 'you were going to say something more about him?
"Yes, sir, a number of them." "A deal of knowledge there of damned human nature! The frog that swelled and swelled and thought himself an ox. Curious how your boyhood books come back into your mind! Sit down, gentlemen, sit down! Reardon's got a box of cigars tucked away somewhere or he isn't Reardon " Along the edge of the not-distant ravine other small fires had been built.
'Better to go on, all the same, was Reardon's opinion. 'If the snow gets deep I shall perhaps not be able to have a cab at all. But you had better not come; I forgot that you are as much out of sorts as I am. 'How can you wait a couple of hours alone? In with you! 'Diphtheria is pretty sure to be fatal to a child of that age, isn't it? Reardon asked when they were speeding along City Road.
Blake?" Jeff asked. Reardon sat down and fussed with the answer. "What Mrs. Blake?" he repeated, and flicked a spot of dust from his trousered ankle lifted to inspection. "Yes," said Jeff, with an outward quiet. "Was that my wife?" Again the colour rose in Reardon's face. It was the signal of an emotion that gave him courage. "Why, yes," he said, "it was." "What did she want?"
He, too, was weak, but with quite another kind of weakness than Reardon's. His was the weakness of vanity, which sometimes leads a man to commit treacheries of which he would believe himself incapable. Self-accused, he took refuge in the pretence of misconception, which again was a betrayal of littleness. They drew near to Westbourne Park station.
But it was Reardon's habit to begin the serious work of the day at about three o'clock, and to continue with brief interruptions until ten or eleven; in many respects an awkward arrangement, but enforced by the man's temperament and his poverty. One evening he sat at his desk with a slip of manuscript paper before him. It was the hour of sunset.
Her estimate of Reardon's mental condition had undergone a sudden change from the moment when she heard that a respectable post was within his reach; she decided that he was 'strange, but then all men of literary talent had marked singularities, and doubtless she had been too hasty in interpreting the peculiar features natural to a character such as his.
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