ay out of it. By-the-bye, I passed Mrs
Reardon this morning, but she didn't see me. It was in Tottenham Court
Road, and Milvain was with her. I felt myself too seedy in appearance to
stop and speak.'

'In Tottenham Court Road?'

That was not the detail of the story which chiefly held Reardon's
attention, yet he did not purposely make a misleading remark. His mind
involuntarily played this trick.

'I only saw them just as they were passing,' pursued Biffen. 'Oh, I knew
I had something to tell you! Have you heard that Whelpdale is going to
be married?'

Reardon shook his head in a preoccupied way.

'I had a note from him this morning, telling me. He asked me to look him
up to-night, and he'd let me know all about it. Let's go together, shall
we?'

'I don't feel much in the humour for Whelpdale. I'll walk with you, and
go on home.'

'No, no; come and see him. It'll do you good to talk a little.--But I
must positively eat a mouthful before we go. I'm afraid you won't care
to join?'

He opened his cupboard, and brought out a loaf of bread and a saucer of
dripping, with salt and pepper.

'Better dripping this than I've had for a long time. I get it at Mr
Bailey's--that isn't his real name, of course. He assures me it comes
from a large hotel where his wife's sister is a kitchen-maid, and that
it's perfectly pure; they very often mix flour with it, you know, and
perhaps more obnoxious things that an economical man doesn't care
to reflect upon. Now, with a little pepper and salt, this bread and
dripping is as appetising food as I know. I often make a dinner of it.'

'I have done the same myself before now. Do you ever buy pease-pudding?'

'I should think so! I get magnificent pennyworths at a shop in Cleveland
Street, of a very rich quality indeed. Excellent faggots they have
there, too. I'll give you a supper of them some night before you go.'

Biffen rose to enthusiasm in the contemplation of these dainties.

He ate his bread and dripping with knife and fork; this always made the
fare seem more substantial.

'Is it very cold out?' he asked, rising from the table. 'Need I put my
overcoat on?'

This overcoat, purchased second-hand three years ago, hung on a
door-nail. Comparative ease of circumstances had restored to the
realist his ordinary indoor garment--a morning coat of the cloth called
diagonal, rather large for him, but in better preservation than the
other articles of his attire.

Reardon judging t