One of Reardon’s minor worries at this time was the fear that by chance he might come upon a review of ‘Margaret Home.’ Since the publication of his first book he had avoided as far as possible all knowledge of what the critics had to say about him; his nervous temperament could not bear the agitation of reading these remarks, which, however inept, define an author and his work to so many people incapable of judging for themselves. No man or woman could tell him anything in the way of praise or blame which he did not already know quite well; commendation was pleasant, but it so often aimed amiss, and censure was for the most part so unintelligent. In the case of this latest novel he dreaded the sight of a review as he would have done a gash from a rusty knife. The judgments could not but be damnatory, and their expression in journalistic phrase would disturb his mind with evil rancour. No one would have insight enough to appreciate the nature and cause of his book’s demerits; every comment would be wide of the mark; sneer, ridicule, trite objection, would but madden him with a sense of injustice.

His position was illogical — one result of the moral weakness which was allied with his aesthetic sensibility. Putting aside the worthlessness of current reviewing, the critic of an isolated book has of course nothing to do with its author’s state of mind and body any more than with the condition of his purse. Reardon would have granted this, but he could not command his emotions. He was in passionate revolt against the base necessities which compelled him to put forth work in no way representing his healthy powers, his artistic criterion. Not he had written this book, but his accursed poverty. To assail him as the author was, in his feeling, to be guilty of brutal insult. When by ill-hap a notice in one of the daily papers came under his eyes, it made his blood boil with a fierceness of hatred only possible to him in a profoundly morbid condition; he could not steady his hand for half an hour after. Yet this particular critic only said what was quite true — that the novel contained not a single striking scene and not one living character; Reardon had expressed himself about it in almost identical terms. But he saw himself in the position of one sickly and all but destitute man against a relentless world, and every blow directed against him appeared dastardly. He could have cried ‘Coward!’ to the writer who wounded him.

The would-be sensational story which was now in Mr Jedwood’s hands had perhaps more merit than ‘Margaret Home’; its brevity, and the fact that nothing more was aimed at than a concatenation of brisk events, made it not unreadable. But Reardon thought of it with humiliation. If it were published as his next work it would afford final proof to such sympathetic readers as he might still retain that he had hopelessly written himself out, and was now endeavouring to adapt himself to an inferior public. In spite of his dire necessities he now and then hoped that Jedwood might refuse the thing.

At moments he looked with sanguine eagerness to the three or four months he was about to spend in retirement, but such impulses were the mere outcome of his nervous disease. He had no faith in himself under present conditions; the permanence of his sufferings would mean the sure destruction of powers he still possessed, though they were not at his command. Yet he believed that his mind was made up as to the advisability of trying this last resource; he was impatient for the day of departure, and in the interval merely killed time as best he might. He could not read, and did not attempt to gather ideas for his next book; the delusion that his mind was resting made an excuse to him for the barrenness of day after day. His ‘Pliny’ article had been despatched to The Wayside, and would possibly be accepted. But he did not trouble himself about this or other details; it was as though his mind could do nothing more than grasp the bald fact of impending destitution; with the steps towards that final stage he seemed to have little concern.

One evening he set forth to make a call upon Harold Biffen, whom he had not seen since the realist called to acknowledge the receipt of a copy of ‘Margaret Home’ left at his lodgings when he was out. Biffen resided in Clipstone Street, a thoroughfare discoverable in the dim district which lies between Portland Place and Tottenham Court Road. On knocking at the door of the lodging-house, Reardon learnt that his friend was at home. He ascended to the third storey and tapped at a door which allowed rays of lamplight to issue from great gaps above and below. A sound of voices came from within, and on entering he perceived that Biffen was engaged with a pupil.

‘They didn’t tell me you had a visitor,’ he said. ‘I’ll call again later.’

‘No need to go away,’ replied Biffen, coming forward to shake hands. ‘Take a book for a few minutes. Mr Baker won’t mind.’

It was a very small room, with a ceiling so low that the tall lodger could only just stand upright with safety; perhaps three inches intervened between his head and the plaster, which was cracked, grimy, cobwebby. A small scrap of weedy carpet lay in front of the fireplace; elsewhere the chinky boards were unconcealed. The furniture consisted of a round table, which kept such imperfect balance on its central support that the lamp entrusted to it looked in a dangerous position, of three small cane-bottomed chairs, a small wash-hand-stand with sundry rude appurtenances, and a chair-bedstead which the tenant opened at the hour of repose and spread with certain primitive trappings at present kept in a cupboard. 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.

The individual referred to as Mr Baker, who sat at the table in the attitude of a student, was a robust, hard-featured, black-haired young man of two-or three-and-twenty; judging from his weather-beaten cheeks and huge hands, as well as from the garb he wore, one would have presumed that study was not his normal occupation. There was something of the riverside about him; he might be a dockman, or even a bargeman. He looked intelligent, however, and bore himself with much modesty.

‘Now do endeavour to write in shorter sentences,’ said Biffen, who sat down by him and resumed the lesson, Reardon having taken up a volume. ‘This isn’t bad — it isn’t bad at all, I assure you; but you have put all you had to say into three appalling periods, whereas you ought to have made about a dozen.’

‘There it is, sir; there it is!’ exclaimed the man, smoothing his wiry hair. ‘I can’t break it up. The thoughts come in a lump, if I may say so. To break it up — there’s the art of compersition.’

Reardon could not refrain from a glance at the speaker, and Biffen, whose manner was very grave and kindly, turned to his friend with an explanation of the difficulties with which the student was struggling.

‘Mr Baker is preparing for the examination of the outdoor Customs Department. One of the subjects is English composition, and really, you know, that isn’t quite such a simple matter as some people think.’

Baker beamed upon the visitor with a homely, good-natured smile.

‘I can make headway with the other things, sir,’ he said, striking the table lightly with his clenched fist. ‘There’s handwriting, there’s orthography, there’s arithmetic; I’m not afraid of one of ’em, as Mr Biffen ‘ll tell you, sir. But when it comes to compersition, that brings out the sweat on my forehead, I do assure you.

‘You’re not the only man in that case, Mr Baker,’ replied Reardon.

‘It’s thought a tough job in general, is it, sir?’

‘It is indeed.’

‘Two hundred marks for compersition,’ continued the man. ‘Now how many would they have given me for this bit of a try, Mr Biffen?’

‘Well, well; I can’t exactly say. But you improve; you improve, decidedly. Peg away for another week or two.’

‘Oh, don’t fear me, sir! I’m not easily beaten when I’ve set my mind on a thing, and I’ll break up the compersition yet, see if I don’t!’

Again his fist descended upon the table in a way that reminded one of the steam-hammer cracking a nut.

The lesson proceeded for about ten minutes, Reardon, under pretence of reading, following it with as much amusement as anything could excite in him nowadays. At length Mr Baker stood up, collected his papers and books, and seemed about to depart; but, after certain uneasy movements and glances, he said to Biffen in a subdued voice:

‘Perhaps I might speak to you outside the door a minute, sir?’

He and the teacher went out, the door closed, and Reardon heard sounds of muffled conversation. In a minute or two a heavy footstep descended the stairs, and Biffen re-entered the room.

‘Now that’s a good, honest fellow,’ he said, in an amused tone. ‘It’s my pay-night, but he didn’t like to fork out money before you. A very unusual delicacy in a man of that standing. He pays me sixpence for an hour’s lesson; that brings me two shillings a week. I sometimes feel a little ashamed to take his money, but then the fact is he’s a good deal better off than I am.’

‘Will he get a place in the Customs, do you think?’

‘Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. If it seemed unlikely, I should have told him so before this. To be sure, that’s a point I have often to consider, and once or twice my delicacy has asserted itself at the expense of my pocket. There was a poor consumptive lad came to me not long ago and wanted Latin lessons; talked about going in for the London Matric., on his way to the pulpit. I couldn’t stand it. After a lesson or two I told him his cough was too bad, and he had no right to study until he got into better health; that was better, I think, than saying plainly he had no chance on earth. But the food I bought with his money was choking me. Oh yes, Baker will make his way right enough. A good, modest fellow.

You noticed how respectfully he spoke to me? It doesn’t make any difference to him that I live in a garret like this; I’m a man of education, and he can separate this fact from my surroundings.’

‘Biffen, why don’t you get some decent position? Surely you might.’

‘What position? No school would take me; I have neither credentials nor conventional clothing. For the same reason I couldn’t get a private tutorship in a rich family. No, no; it’s all right. I keep myself alive, and I get on with my work. — By-the-bye, I’ve decided to write a book called “Mr Bailey, Grocer.”’

‘What’s the idea?’

‘An objectionable word, that. Better say: “What’s the reality?” Well, Mr Bailey is a grocer in a little street by here. I have dealt with him for a long time, and as he’s a talkative fellow I’ve come to know a good deal about him and his history. He’s fond of talking about the struggle he had in his first year of business. He had no money of his own, but he married a woman who had saved forty-five pounds out of a cat’s-meat business. You should see that woman! A big, coarse, squinting creature; at the time of the marriage she was a widow and forty-two years old. Now I’m going to tell the true story of Mr Bailey’s marriage and of his progress as a grocer. It’ll be a great book — a great book!’

He walked up and down the room, fervid with his conception.

‘There’ll be nothing bestial in it, you know. The decently ignoble — as I’ve so often said. The thing’ll take me a year at least. I shall do it slowly, lovingly. One volume, of course; the length of the ordinary French novel. There’s something fine in the title, don’t you think? “Mr Bailey, Grocer”!’

‘I envy you, old fellow,’ said Reardon, sighing. ‘You have the right fire in you; you have zeal and energy. Well, what do you think I have decided to do?’

‘I should like to hear.’

Reardon gave an account of his project. The other listened gravely, seated across a chair with his arms on the back.

‘Your wife is in agreement with this?’

‘Oh yes.’ He could not bring himself to say that Amy had suggested it. ‘She has great hopes that the change will be just what I need.’

‘I should say so too — if you were going to rest. But if you have to set to work at once it seems to me very doubtful.’

‘Never mind. For Heaven’s sake don’t discourage me! If this fails I think — upon my soul, I think I shall kill myself.’

‘Pooh!’ exclaimed Biffen, gently. ‘With a wife like yours?’

‘Just because of that.’

‘No, no; there’ll be some way out of it. By-the-bye, I passed Mrs Reardon this morning, but she didn’t see me. It was in Tottenham Court Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance to stop and speak.’

‘In Tottenham Court Road?’

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon’s attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind involuntarily played this trick.

‘I only saw them just as they were passing,’ pursued Biffen. ‘Oh, I knew I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to be married?’

Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.

‘I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him up to-night, and he’d let me know all about it. Let’s go together, shall we?’

‘I don’t feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I’ll walk with you, and go on home.’

‘No, no; come and see him. It’ll do you good to talk a little. — But I must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I’m afraid you won’t care to join?’

He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of dripping, with salt and pepper.

‘Better dripping this than I’ve had for a long time. I get it at Mr Bailey’s — that isn’t his real name, of course. He assures me it comes from a large hotel where his wife’s sister is a kitchen-maid, and that it’s perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn’t care to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and dripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.’

‘I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?’

‘I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they have there, too. I’ll give you a supper of them some night before you go.’

Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.

He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the fare seem more substantial.

‘Is it very cold out?’ he asked, rising from the table. ‘Need I put my overcoat on?’

This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a door-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the realist his ordinary indoor garment — a morning coat of the cloth called diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the other articles of his attire.

Reardon judging the overcoat necessary, his friend carefully brushed it and drew it on with a caution which probably had reference to starting seams. Then he put into the pocket his pipe, his pouch, his tobacco-stopper, and his matches, murmuring to himself a Greek iambic line which had come into his head a propos of nothing obvious.

‘Go out,’ he said, ‘and then I’ll extinguish the lamp. Mind the second step down, as usual.’

They issued into Clipstone Street, turned nort............