Like one who accepts an indifferent gift, rather to pleasure a friend than for his own gratification, Sir Robert Linne held his reprieve¹ in his pocket, as it were, with a careless hand, and, accompanied by the lawyer, re-entered the humming lists of life.

 

Silently the two made their way westwards, the man of deeds accommodating his pace, with some secret chafing², to the leisurely³ progress of his companion. Now and again he would glance stealthily aside into the latter’s face, and give a half-comical shrug⁴ of chagrin⁵ over its expression of tranquil⁶ good-humour that seemed such a genial⁷ satire⁸ upon the situation.

 

“If he hobnobs with death so calmly, how will his philosophy accept a living estate?” thought the uneasy scrivener; and, “light come, light go,” he groaned⁹ in his heart.

 

Presently they were in Holborn, without the rag of a sentence to pass between them; and so came opposite the block of houses known as Middle Row.

 

Here suddenly Sir Robert stopped, and took his companion by the arm.

 

“You itch¹⁰ to improve on the situation,” said he, with a twinkling gravity. “Harkee! Now’s your opportunity. Here am I;—yonder stands Branscome’s lottery¹¹ office. Draw your moral, my friend, and ease you of your load.”

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