“I see,” said Rickman slowly.  In an instant he saw it all; the monstrous and abominable suspicion that had rested upon him all the evening.  It explained everything.  He saw, too, how every movement of his own had lent itself to the intolerable inference.  It was so complete, so satisfactory, so comprehensive, that he could not wonder that they had found no escape from it.  He could find none himself.  There was no way by which he could establish the fact of his sobriety; for it is the very nature of such accusations to feed upon defence.  Denial, whether humorous or indignant, would but condemn him more.  The very plausibility of the imputation acted on him as a despotic suggestion.  He began to feel that he must have been drunk at Rankin’s; that he was drunk now while he was talking to Maddox.  And to have told the truth, to have said, “Maddy, I’m starving.  I haven’t had a square meal for four months,” would have sounded too like a beggar’s whine.  Whatever he let out later on, it would be mean to spring all that on Maddox now, covering him with confusion and remorse.

He laughed softly, aware that his very laugh would be used as evidence against him.  “I see.  So you all thought I’d been drinking?”

“Well—­if you’ll forgive my saying so—­”

“Oh, I forgive you.  It was a very natural supposition.”

“I think you’ll have to apologise to the Rankins.”

“I think the Rankins’ll have to apologise to me.”

With every foolish word he was more hopelessly immersed.

He insisted on parting with Maddox at the Marble Arch.  After all, he had not borrowed that fifty pounds nor yet that twopence.  Luckily Rankin’s brandy enabled him to walk back with less difficulty than he came.  It had also warmed him, so that he did not find out all at once that he had left his overcoat at Rankin’s.  He could not go back for it.  He could never present himself at that house again.

It was a frosty night with a bitter wind rising in the east and blowing up Oxford Street.  His attic under the icicled tiles was dark and narrow as the grave.  And on the other side of the thin wall a Hunger, more infernal and malignant than his own, waited stealthily for its prey.

CHAPTER LXXI

It was five o’clock, and Dicky Pilkington was at his ease stretched before the fire in a low chair in the drawing-room of the flat he now habitually shared with Poppy Grace.  It was beatitude to lie there with his legs nicely toasting, to have his tea (which he did not drink) poured out for him by the most popular little variety actress in London, and to know that she had found in him her master.  This evening, his intellect in play under many genial influences, Dicky was once more raising the paean of Finance.  Under some piquant provocation, too; for Poppy had just informed him, that she “didn’t fancy his business.”