FullReads

He drifted into a corner, and there would have sat alone, seemingly at peace, had not Mrs. Weare presently moved to a seat beside him.

‘I hope you won’t be staying in town through August, Mr. Tymperley?’

‘No!–Oh no!–Oh no, I think not!’

‘But you seem uncertain. Do forgive me if I say that I’m sure you need a change. Really, you know, you are not looking quite the thing. Now, can’t I persuade you to join us at Lucerne? My husband would be so pleased–delighted to talk with you about the state of Europe. Give us a fortnight–do!’

‘My dear Mrs. Weare, you are kindness itself! I am deeply grateful. I can’t easily express my sense of your most friendly thoughtfulness. But, the truth is, I am half engaged to other friends. Indeed, I think I may almost say that I have practically…yes, indeed, it amounts to that.’

He spoke in a thinly fluting voice, with a preciseness of enunciation akin to the more feebly clerical, and with smiles which became almost lachrymose in their expressiveness as he dropped from phrase to phrase of embarrassed circumlocution. And his long bony hands writhed together till the knuckles were white.

‘Well, so long as you are going away. I’m so afraid lest your conscientiousness should go too far. You won’t benefit anybody, you know, by making yourself ill.’

‘Obviously not!–Ha, ha!–I assure you that fact is patent to me. Health is a primary consideration. Nothing more detrimental to one’s usefulness than an impaired… Oh, to be sure, to be sure!’

‘There’s the strain upon your sympathies. That must affect one’s health, quite apart from an unhealthy atmosphere.’

‘But Islington is not unhealthy, my dear Mrs. Weare! Believe me, the air has often quite a tonic quality. We are so high, you must remember. If only we could subdue in some degree the noxious exhalations of domestic and industrial chimneys!–Oh, I assure you, Islington has every natural feature of salubrity.’

Before the close of the evening there was a little music, which Mr. Tymperley seemed much to enjoy. He let his head fall back, and stared upwards; remaining rapt in that posture for some moments after the music ceased, and at length recovering himself with a sigh.

When he left the house, he donned an overcoat considerably too thick for the season, and bestowed in the pockets his patent-leather shoes. His hat was a hard felt, high in the crown. He grasped an ill-folded umbrella, and set forth at a brisk walk, as if for the neighbouring station. But the railway was not his goal, nor yet the omnibus. Through the ambrosial night he walked and walked, at the steady pace of one accustomed to pedestrian exercise: from Notting Hill Gate to the Marble Arch; from the Marble Arch to New Oxford Street; thence by Theobald’s Road to Pentonville, and up, and up, until he attained the heights of his own salubrious quarter. Long after midnight he entered a narrow byway, which the pale moon showed to be decent, though not inviting. He admitted himself with a latchkey to a little house which smelt of glue, lit a candle-end which he found in his pocket, and ascended two flights of stairs to a back bedroom, its size eight feet by seven and a half. A few minutes more, and he lay sound asleep.

Waking at eight o’clock–he knew the time by a bell that clanged in the neighbourhood–Mr. Tymperley clad himself with nervous haste. On opening his door, he found lying outside a tray, with the materials of a breakfast reduced to its lowest terms: half a pint of milk, bread, butter. At nine o’clock he went downstairs, tapped civilly at the door of the front parlour, and by an untuned voice was bidden enter. The room was occupied by an oldish man and a girl, addressing themselves to the day’s work of plain bookbinding.

‘Good morning to you, sir,’ said Mr. Tymperley, bending his head. ‘Good morning, Miss Suggs. Bright! Sunny! How it cheers one!’