“No,” answered Hugh laughing.  “But you know, Miss Talbot, you made it part of the agreement that I shouldn’t smoke indoors.  So I’m going to smoke in the street.”

“Now, think of being taken that way!” retorted Miss Talbot, with an injured air.  “Why, that was before I knew anything about you.  Go up stairs directly, and smoke your pipe; and when the room can’t hold any more, you can open the windows.  Your smoke won’t do any harm, Mr. Sutherland.  But I’m very sorry you quarrelled with Mrs. Appleditch.  She’s a hard woman, and over fond of her money and her drawing-room; and for those boys of hers —­ the Lord have mercy on them, for she has none!  But she’s a true Christian for all that, and does a power of good among the poor people.”

“What does she give them, Miss Talbot?”

“Oh! —­ she gives them —­ hm-m —­ tracts and things.  You know,” she added, perceiving the weakness of her position, “people’s souls should come first.  And poor Mrs. Appleditch —­ you see —­ some folks is made stickier than others, and their money sticks to them, somehow, that they can’t part with it —­ poor woman!”

To this Hugh had no answer at hand; for though Miss Talbot’s logic was more than questionable, her charity was perfectly sound; and Hugh felt that he had not been forbearing enough with the mother of the future pastors.  So he went back to his room, lighted his pipe, and smoked till he fell asleep over a small volume of morbid modern divinity, which Miss Talbot had lent him.  I do not mention the name of the book, lest some of my acquaintance should abuse me, and others it, more than either deserves.  Hugh, however, found the best refuge from the diseased self-consciousness which it endeavoured to rouse, and which is a kind of spiritual somnambulism, in an hour of God’s good sleep, into a means of which the book was temporarily elevated.  When he woke he found himself greatly refreshed by the influence it had exercised upon him.

It was now the hour for the daily pretence of going to dine.  So he went out.  But all he had was some bread, which he ate as he walked about.  Loitering here, and trifling there, passing five minutes over a volume on every bookstall in Holborn, and comparing the shapes of the meerschaums in every tobacconist’s window, time ambled gently along with him; and it struck nine just as he found himself at Falconer’s door.

“You are ready, then?” said Falconer.

“Quite.”

“Will you take anything before you go?  I think we had better have some supper first.  It is early for our project.”

This was a welcome proposal to Hugh.  Cold meat and ale were excellent preparatives for what might be required of him; for a tendency to collapse in a certain region, called by courtesy the chest, is not favourable to deeds of valour.  By the time he had spent ten minutes in the discharge of the agreeable duty suggested, he felt himself ready for anything that might fall to his lot.