A little alarmed by such eccentricity, and not quite sure that this associate of Carlyle was perfectly sane, Richard sat silent, waiting for events. Mr. Aked was clearly accustomed to reading while he ate; he could even drink with his eyes on the book. At length he pushed his plates away from him, and closed the novel with a snap. "I see you're from the country, Larch," he said, as if there had been no lapse in the conversation. "Now, why in God's name did you leave the country? Aren't there enough people in London?" "Because _I_ wanted to be an author," answered Richard, with more assurance than veracity, though he spoke in good faith. The fact was that his aspirations, hitherto so vague as to elude analysis, seemed within the last few minutes mysteriously to have assumed definite form. "You're a young fool, then." "But I've an excellent digestion." "You won't have it if you begin to write. Take my word, you're a young fool. You don't know what you're going in for, my little friend." "Was Murger a fool?" Richard said clumsily, determined to exhibit an acquaintance with "La Vie de Bohème." "Ha! We read French, do we?" Richard blushed. The old man got up. "Come along," he said peevishly. "Let's get out of this hole." At the pay-desk, waiting for change, he spoke to the cashier, a thin girl with reddish-brown hair, who coughed,-- "Did you try those lozenges?" "Oh! yes, thanks. They _taste_ nice." "Beautiful day." "Yes; my word, isn't it!" They walked back to the office in absolute silence; but just as they were going in, Mr. Aked stopped, and took Richard by the coat. "Have you anything special to do next Thursday night?" "No," said Richard. "Well, I'll take you to a little French restaurant in Soho, and we'll have dinner. Half a crown. Can you afford?" Richard nodded. "And, I say, bring along some of your manuscripts, and I'll flay them alive for you." CHAPTER VI An inconstant, unrefreshing breeze, sluggish with accumulated impurity, stirred the curtains, and every urban sound--high-pitched voices of children playing, roll of wheels and rhythmic trot of horses, shouts of newsboys and querulous barking of dogs--came through the open windows touched with a certain languorous quality that suggested a city fatigued, a city yearning for the moist recesses of woods, the disinfectant breath of mountain tops, and the cleansing sea.