'You really mean that?'

'Undoubtedly.'

Seeing that Reardon was not disposed even to allude to private
circumstances, the secretary said no more, and went away convinced that
misfortunes had turned the poor fellow's brain.

Wandering in the city, about this time, Reardon encountered his friend
the realist.

'Would you like to meet Sykes?' asked Biffen. 'I am just going to see
him.'

'Where does he live?'

'In some indiscoverable hole. To save fuel, he spends his mornings at
some reading-rooms; the admission is only a penny, and there he can see
all the papers and do his writing and enjoy a grateful temperature.'

They repaired to the haunt in question. A flight of stairs brought them
to a small room in which were exposed the daily newspapers; another
ascent, and they were in a room devoted to magazines, chess, and
refreshments; yet another, and they reached the department of weekly
publications; lastly, at the top of the house, they found a lavatory,
and a chamber for the use of those who desired to write. The walls
of this last retreat were of blue plaster and sloped inwards from the
floor; along them stood school desks with benches, and in one place was
suspended a ragged and dirty card announcing that paper and envelopes
could be purchased downstairs. An enormous basket full of waste-paper,
and a small stove, occupied two corners; ink blotches, satirical
designs, and much scribbling in pen and pencil served for mural
adornment. From the adjacent lavatory came sounds of splashing and
spluttering, and the busy street far below sent up its confused noises.

Two persons only sat at the desks. One was a hunger-bitten, out-of-work
clerk, evidently engaged in replying to advertisements; in front of him
lay two or three finished letters, and on the ground at his feet were
several crumpled sheets of note-paper, representing abortive essays in
composition. The other man, also occupied with the pen, looked about
forty years old, and was clad in a very rusty suit of tweeds; on the
bench beside him lay a grey overcoat and a silk hat which had for
some time been moulting. His face declared the habit to which he was a
victim, but it had nothing repulsive in its lineaments and expression;
on the contrary, it was pleasing, amiable, and rather quaint. At this
moment no one would have doubted his sobriety. With coat-sleeve turned
back, so as to give free play to his right hand and wrist, revealing
meanwhile a flannel shirt o