CHAPTER XVIII

As the clock struck five Rainham looked up with an air of relief, flipping negligently across the table the heap of papers which had occupied him since lunch-time.

“We must go into this some other time, Bullen,” he remarked with a certain petulance.  “I confess things look rather bad; but I suppose they can hold over till to-morrow?”

The foreman assented dubiously, gathering together the despised sheets, and preparing for departure.

“I’ve done my best, sir,” he said a little sullenly; “but it is difficult for things to go smoothly when the master is always away; and you never will take no notice of business letters, you know, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” said Rainham wearily; “I am sure you have, Bullen.  If I go into the Bankruptcy Court, as you so frequently prophesy, it will be entirely my own fault.  In the meantime you might tell your wife to send me up some tea—­for two, Bullen, please.  Mr. Oswyn will be up presently.”

The man retired, shutting the door with some ardour.  Rainham rose, and, with the little, expansive shrug with which he usually discarded his commercial worries, wandered towards the window.  The dock was empty and desolate:  the rain, which had prevailed with a persistent dreariness since the morning, built morasses at regular intervals along the dock-side, splashed unceasingly into the stagnant green water which collected in slack seasons within the dock-gates.  The dockman stood, one disconsolate figure in the general blankness, with his high boots and oilskins, smoking a short clay pipe by the door of the engine-room; and further out, under the dripping dome of an umbrella, sat Oswyn in a great pea-jacket, smoking, painting the mist, the rain, the white river with its few blurred barges and its background of dreary warehouses, in a supreme disregard of the dank discomfort of his surroundings.

Rainham had tapped three times against the streaming pane before he succeeded in attracting his attention, and then the painter only responded to the wonted signal by an impatient, deprecating flourish of the hand which held the palette.  The tea was already simmering on the rickety table in the bow-window, when Oswyn, staggering under his impedimenta, climbed the staircase, and shouldered his way familiarly into the room.

“How fearfully wet you must be!” said his host lazily from the depths of an arm-chair.  “Help yourself to a pair of slippers and a dry coat, and have some tea.  It’s strong enough even for you by this time.”

The other had disembarrassed himself of his dripping jacket and overalls, and now kicked off his shoes, with a short laugh.  He was never a great talker in the daytime, and the dreary charm of the river world outside was still upon him.  He dropped the sketch upon which he had been working rather contemptuously against the wall, where Rainham could see it, and selected a pair of slippers from quite a small heap in the corner by the fireplace.