Foster too for since he chooses not visitors, it is right to keep his place in a fashion that will invite few to trespass upon his privacy.  But had he been the Anthony I once knew him, these sturdy oaks had long since become the property of some honest woodmonger, and the manor-close here had looked lighter at midnight than it now does at noon, while Foster played fast and loose with the price, in some cunning corner in the purlieus of Whitefriars.”

“Was he then such an unthrift?” asked Tressilian.

“He was,” answered Lambourne, “like the rest of us, no saint, and no saver.  But what I liked worst of Tony was, that he loved to take his pleasure by himself, and grudged, as men say, every drop of water that went past his own mill.  I have known him deal with such measures of wine when he was alone, as I would not have ventured on with aid of the best toper in Berkshire;—­that, and some sway towards superstition, which he had by temperament, rendered him unworthy the company of a good fellow.  And now he has earthed himself here, in a den just befitting such a sly fox as himself.”

“May I ask you, Master Lambourne,” said Tressilian, “since your old companion’s humour jumps so little with your own, wherefore you are so desirous to renew acquaintance with him?”

“And may I ask you, in return, Master Tressilian,” answered Lambourne, “wherefore you have shown yourself so desirous to accompany me on this party?”

“I told you my motive,” said Tressilian, “when I took share in your wager—­it was simple curiosity.”

“La you there now!” answered Lambourne.  “See how you civil and discreet gentlemen think to use us who live by the free exercise of our wits!  Had I answered your question by saying that it was simple curiosity which led me to visit my old comrade Anthony Foster, I warrant you had set it down for an evasion, and a turn of my trade.  But any answer, I suppose, must serve my turn.”

“And wherefore should not bare curiosity,” said Tressilian, “be a sufficient reason for my taking this walk with you?”

“Oh, content yourself, sir,” replied Lambourne; “you cannot put the change on me so easy as you think, for I have lived among the quick-stirring spirits of the age too long to swallow chaff for grain.  You are a gentleman of birth and breeding—­your bearing makes it good; of civil habits and fair reputation—­your manners declare it, and my uncle avouches it; and yet you associate yourself with a sort of scant-of-grace, as men call me, and, knowing me to be such, you make yourself my companion in a visit to a man whom you are a stranger to—­and all out of mere curiosity, forsooth!  The excuse, if curiously balanced, would be found to want some scruples of just weight, or so.”

“If your suspicions were just,” said Tressilian, “you have shown no confidence in me to invite or deserve mine.”