He had been prepared to do the handsome thing by Miss Harden, only her manner had somehow “choked him off.”  He could have afforded it, for he considered this Freddy Harden business as his very largest deal.  He held a mortgage on the land, from the river to the top of Harcombe Hill.  There was any amount to be got out of the pictures and the furniture.  And the library was not altogether to be sneezed at.  It had been Fred Harden’s last desperate resource, (rather poor security in Dicky’s opinion); but if the sum advanced had not been prodigious (compared with the sums that had gone before it) the interest had been high.  So that, in returning from his tour of inspection, he felt considerably elated.

Rickman, as he went down the High Street that evening, saw Dicky a little way in front of him.  He noticed that the financial agent was an object of considerable interest to the people of Harmouth.  Men stood at shop doors and street corners, women (according to their social standing) hung out of bedroom windows or hid behind parlour curtains to look after him as he went.  Here and there Rickman caught sullen and indignant glances, derisive words and laughter.  Evidently the spirit of Harmouth was hostile to Dicky.  A Harden was a Harden, and Sir Frederick’s magnificently complete disaster had moved even the townspeople, his creditors.

The excitement caused by Dicky concentrated at the windows of the London and Provincial Bank, where Sir Frederick had had a large balance—­overdrawn.

Harmouth High Street is a lane, wide at the top and narrow at the bottom, which gives on to the esplanade between the Marine Hotel and the Bank.  At a certain distance these buildings cut the view into a thin slip of grey beach and steep blue sea.  The form of Dicky was now visible in the centre of that slip, top-hatted, distinct against the blue.  He stood on the edge of the esplanade as on a railway platform, reading the paper and smoking a cigar.  From time to time, looking up with an expression half visionary, half voluptuous, he puffed and spat in dreamy rhythmic sequence.

“Coelum, non animam,” said Rickman to himself, “they change their skies, but not their habits.”  When he came up with him, he found the soul of Pilkington disporting itself in its own airy element, exchanging ideas with two young damsels who frolicked on the beach below.  Backwards and forwards flew the light-hearted banter, like balls of sea-foam, Mr. Pilkington the inspirer and the inspired.  The after-glow of his last triumphant witticism still illuminated his countenance when he turned again to the printed page.