On
the fourth evening, just as he had made up his mind to walk over to
Queen's Road, the familiar knock sounded. Mrs. Hopper had left; Will
went to the door, and greeted his visitor in the usual way. But
Franks entered without speaking. The lamplight showed a pitiful
change in him; he was yellow and fishy-eyed, unshaven, disorderly in
dress indeed, so well did he look the part of the despairing lover
that Warburton suspected a touch of theatric consciousness.
"If you hadn't come to-night," said Will, "I should have looked you
up."
Franks lay limply in the armchair, staring blankly.
"I ought to have come before," he replied in low, toneless voice.
"That night when I met you, I made a fool of myself. For one thing,
I was drunk, and I've been drunk ever since."
"Ha! That accounts for your dirty collar," remarked Will, in his
note of dry drollery.
"Is it dirty?" said the other, passing a finger round his neck.
"What does it matter? A little dirt more or less, in a world so full
of it--"
Warburton could not contain himself; he laughed, and laughed again.
And his mirth was contagious; Franks chuckled, unwillingly,
dolefully.
"You are not extravagant in sympathy," said the artist, moving with
fretful nervousness.
"If I were, would it do you any good, old fellow? Look here, are we
to talk of this affair or not? Just as you like. For my part, I'd
rather talk about 'The Slummer.' I had a look at it the other day.
Uncommonly good, the blackguard on the curbstone, you've got him.
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