Presently the “pages” began to come in, but long delays intervened, and it transpired that some of the “copy” was not yet in type.  Frank grew weary, and he complained of headache, and asked Mike to see the paper through for him.  Mike thought Frank selfish, but there was no help for it.  He could not refuse, but must wait in the paraffin-like smell of the ink, listening to the droning voice of the reading-boy.  If he could only get the proof of his poem he could kill time by correcting it; but it could not be obtained.  Two hours passed, and he still sat watching the red beard of a compositor, and the crimson volutes of an ear.  At last the printer’s devil, his short sleeves rolled up, brought in a couple of pages.  Mike read, following the lines with his pen, correcting the literals, and he cursed when the “devil” told him that ten more lines of copy were wanting to complete page nine.  What should he write?

About two o’clock, holding her ball-skirts out of the dirt, a lady entered.

“How do you do, Emily?” said Mike.  “Just fancy seeing you here, and at this hour!” He was glad of the interruption; but his pleasure was dashed by the fear that she would ask him to come home with her.

“Oh, I have had such a pleasant party; So-and-so sang at Lady Southey’s.  Oh, I have enjoyed myself!  I knew I should find you here; but I am interrupting.  I will go.”  She put her arm round his neck.  He looked at her diamonds, and congratulated himself that she was a lady.

“I am afraid I am interrupting you,” she said again.

“Oh no, you aren’t, I shall be done in half an hour; I have only got a few more pages to read through.  Escott went away, selfish brute that he is, and has left me to do all the work.”

She sat by his side contentedly reading what he had written.  At half-past two all the pages were passed for press, and they descended the spiral iron staircase, through the grease and vinegar smell of the ink, in view of heads and arms of a hundred compositors, in hearing of the drowsy murmur of the reading-boy.  Her brougham was at the door.  As she stepped in Mike screwed up his courage and said good-bye.

“Won’t you come?” she said, with disappointment in her eyes.

“No, not to-night.  I have been slaving at that paper for the last four hours.  Thanks; not to-night.  Good-bye; I’ll see you next week.”

The brougham rolled away, and Mike walked home.  The hands of the clocks were stretching towards three, and only a few drink-disfigured creatures of thirty-five or forty lingered; so horrible were they that he did not answer their salutations.

CHAPTER IV

Mike was in his bath when Frank entered.

“What, not dressed yet?”

“All very well for you to talk.  You left me at eleven to get the paper out as best I could.  I did not get away from the printer’s before half-past two.”