“And when are you coming to dine with us, eh?” the general said, lighting a last cigar and getting his hat.  “To-morrow night?—­quiet family party, you know:  her ladyship’ll be awfully glad to see you.  Is it a bargain?  All right—­seven:  we’re early folks.  I say, you needn’t mention I dined here to-night:  to tell you the truth, I’m supposed to be looking after a company too, and precious busy about it.  Mum’s the word, d’ye see?”

Really this plunge into a new sort of life was quite delightful.  When he went down to breakfast next morning, he was charmed with the order and cleanliness of everything around him; the sunlight was shining in at the large windows; there was a bright fire, in front of which he stood and read the paper until his cutlets came.  There was no croaking of an old Cornish housekeeper over her bills—­no necessity for seeing if the grocer had been correct in his addition.  Then there was a slight difference between the cooking here and that which prevailed in Basset Cottage.

In a comfortable frame of mind he leisurely walked down to Canon street and announced himself to his partners.  He sat for an hour or so in a snug little parlor, talking over their joint venture and describing all that had been done.  There was indeed every ground for hope, and he was pleased to hear them say that they were specially obliged to him for having gone out to verify the reports that had been sent home, and for his personal supervision while there.  They hoped he would draw on the joint association for a certain sum which should represent the value of that supervision.

Now, if Mr. Roscorla had really been possessed at this moment of the wealth to which he looked forward, he would not have taken so much interest in it.  He would have said to himself, “What is the life I am to lead, now that I have this money?  Having luncheon at the club, walking in the Park in the afternoon, dining with a friend in the evening, and playing whist or billiards, with the comfortless return to my bachelor’s chambers at night?  Is that all that my money can give me?”

But he had not the money.  He looked forward to it, and it seemed to him that it contained all the possibilities of happiness.  Then he would be free.  No more stationary dragging out of existence in that Cornish cottage.  He would move about, he would enjoy life.  He was still younger than those jovial old fellows, who seemed to be happy enough.  When he thought of Wenna Rosewarne it was with the notion that marriage very considerably hampers a man’s freedom of action.

If a man were married, could he have a choice of thirty dishes for luncheon?  Could he have the first edition of the evening papers brought him almost damp from the press?  Then how pleasant it was to be able to smoke a cigar and to write one or two letters at the same time in a large and well-ventilated room!  Mr. Roscorla did not fail to draw on his partners for the sum they had mentioned:  he was not short of money, but he might as well gather the first few drops of the coming shower.