Richard was well aware that to give way to his temper was worse than useless, and could only defeat every end; but something within him just now gnawed so intolerably that there was nothing for it but an outbreak.  The difficulties of life were hedging him in—­difficulties he could not have conceived till they became matter of practical experience.  And unfortunately a great many of them were not of an honest kind; they would not bear exposing.  For a man of decision, Mutimer was getting strangely remote from practical roads.

‘I shall live as I like,’ observed ’Arry, thrusting out his legs and bending his body forward, a combination of movements which, I know not why, especially suggests dissoluteness.

Richard gave up the contest for the present, and went in silence from the room.  As he joined his mother and sister they suddenly ceased talking.

‘Don’t cook anything for me,’ he said, remaining near the door.  ’I’m going out.’

‘But you must have something to eat,’ protested his mother.  ‘See’—­she rose hastily—­’I’ll get a chop done at once.’

’I couldn’t eat it if you did.  I dare say you’ve got some cold meat.  Leave it out for me; I don’t know what time I shall get back.’

‘You’re very unkind, Dick,’ here remarked Alice, who wore a mutinous look.  ‘Why couldn’t you let us go to the theatre?’

Her brother vouchsafed no reply, but withdrew from the room, and almost immediately left the house.  He walked half a mile with his eyes turned to the ground, then noticed a hansom which was passing empty, and had himself driven to Hoxton.  He alighted near the Britannia Theatre, and thence made his way by foul streets to a public-house called the ‘Warwick Castle.’  Only two customers occupied the bar; the landlord stood in his shirt-sleeves, with arms crossed, musing.  At the sight of Mutimer he brightened up, and extended his hand.

‘How d’you do; how d’you do, sir?’ he exclaimed.  ‘Glad to see you.’

The shake of the hands was a tribute to old times, the ‘sir’ was a recognition of changed circumstances.  Mr. Nicholas Dabbs, the brother of Daniel, was not a man to lose anything by failure to acknowledge social distinctions.  A short time ago Daniel had expostulated with his brother on the use of ‘sir’ to Mutimer, eliciting the profound reply, ’D’you think he’d have ’ad that glass of whisky if I’d called him Dick?’

‘Dan home yet?’ Mutimer inquired.

’Not been in five minutes.  Come round, sir, will you?  I know he wants to see you.’

A portion of the counter was raised, and Richard passed into a parlour behind the bar.

‘I’ll call him,’ said the landlord.

Daniel appeared immediately.

‘I want a bit of private talk,’ he said to his brother.  ’We’ll have this door shut, if you don’t mind.’

‘You may as well bring us a drop of something first, Nick,’ put in Richard.  ‘Give the order, Dan.’