Thus it comes about that, as I always
write to Michael at his office, I cannot swear to his number in the
King's Road. Of course (like my neighbours), I have been to dinner
there. Of late years, since his accession to wealth, neglect of
business, and election to the club, these little festivals have become
common. He picks up a few fellows in the smoking-room--all men of Attic
wit--myself, for instance, if he has the luck to find me disengaged; a
string of hansoms may be observed (by Her Majesty) bowling gaily through
St James's Park; and in a quarter of an hour the party surrounds one of
the best appointed boards in London.
But at the time of which we write the house in the King's Road (let us
still continue to call it No. 233) was kept very quiet; when Michael
entertained guests it was at the halls of Nichol or Verrey that he would
convene them, and the door of his private residence remained closed
against his friends. The upper storey, which was sunny, was set apart
for his father; the drawing-room was never opened; the dining-room was
the scene of Michael's life. It is in this pleasant apartment,
sheltered from the curiosity of King's Road by wire blinds, and entirely
surrounded by the lawyer's unrivalled library of poetry and criminal
trials, that we find him sitting down to his dinner after his holiday
with Pitman.
Pages:
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163