‘Do let us see you again soon,’ said his
hostess, as he took leave of her. ’Come
in at five o’clock on Wednesday, that’s
our quiet day; only a few of our real friends.
We shall be in town till Christmas, for certain.’
On the stairs he passed Mr. Felix Dymes, the composer
of ‘Margot’.
‘Oh, it’s the easiest thing in the world,’
Mr. Dymes was saying, ’to compose a song that
will be popular. I’ll give you the recipe,
and charge nothing You must have a sudden change to
the minor, and a waltz refrain — that’s
all. Oh yes, there’s money in it. I
know a man who ——’
Rolfe had never left the house in such a bad temper.
When he awoke next morning, the weather was so gloomy
that he seriously resumed his thought of getting away
from London. Why, indeed, did he make London
his home, when it would be easy to live in places vastly
more interesting, and under a pure sky? He was
a citizen of no city at all, and had less desire than
ever to bind himself to a permanent habitation.
All very well so long as he kept among his male friends,
at the club and elsewhere; but this ‘society’
played the deuce with him, and he had not the common-sense,
the force of resolve, to keep out of it altogether.
Well, he must go to his bank this morning, to draw
cash.
It was about twelve o’clock when he stood at
the counter, waiting with his cheque. The man
before him talked with the teller.
‘Do you know that the “Britannia”
has shut up?’
‘The bank? No!’
’But it has. I passed just now, and there
were a lot of people standing about. Closed at
half-past eleven, they say.
Harvey had a singular sensation, a tremor at his heart,
a flutter of the pulses, a turning cold and hot; then
he was quite calm again, and said to himself, ‘Of
course.’ For a minute or two the quiet routine
of the bank was suspended; the news passed from mouth
to mouth; newcomers swelled a gossiping group in front
of the counter, and Harvey listened. The general
tone was cynical; there sounded scarcely a note of
indignation; no one present seemed to be personally
affected by the disaster. The name of Bennet
Frothingham was frequently pronounced, with unflattering
comments.
‘Somebody’ll get it hot,’ remarked
one of the speakers; and the others laughed.
Rolfe, having transacted his business, walked away.
It struck him that he would go and look at the closed
bank, but he did not remember the address; a policeman
directed him, and he walked on, the distance not being
very great. At the end of the street in which
the building stood, signs of the unusual became observable
— the outskirts of a crowd, hanging loose
in animated talk, as after some exciting occurrence;
and before the bank itself was gathered a throng of
men, respectability’s silk hats mingling with
the felts and caps of lower strata. Here and
