“Yes, Netherby; but we must be packing what few things we want to keep.” Cheerily drawing off her gloves, she added with sudden seriousness: “I had not realized the position until Anthony told me a day or two ago, but within twenty-four hours I had settled everything--even the debts. And we have just taken a top-floor within half-an-hour of Charing Cross. It’s very airy--and it’s a large room--and the landlady’s a dear soul.” A twinkle came into her eyes. “But I’m afraid we must give up our weekly receptions.” Her shoulders gave the slightest suspicion of a shrug, and a serious catch came into her voice: “I’m only distressed to think, Netherby, that your loyal friendship to us has brought you no richer reward than a share in our disaster----” There was a heavy step on the landing without. Caroline Baddlesmere dashed a handkerchief across her eyes, and, opening the editor’s door, she signed to Julia to slip away with her. There was a loud knock. A big, gloomy man entered, flung the door to again dramatically, and strode solemnly into the room. His lank iron-grey hair, the massive pale clean-shaven face, the seedy frock-coat tightly buttoned across his body, his close-fitting much-knee’d trousers, and deliberate calculated stride, all gave him the air of a decayed actor of the old school; and his large gesture and full dramatic voice, that gave value to every word he spoke, heightened the impression; whilst the loose black cloak that was flung back from his shoulders finished it. “I am Eustace Lovegood,” he said tragically, and brought his cane down upon the floor. “Yes, sir,” said Gomme. “Thanks, young man,” said he; “I require your confirmation of the pathetic fact. I dined out last night”--he touched his forehead with his forefinger wearily--“and my most unprofitable intellect reminds me of what my bank-book and the neglect of the world have long since ceased to remind me--that my name is Eustace and Lovegood.... I must see the Editor.” “Yes, sir.” Gomme waved him to the chair by the fireplace. “Be seated, sir.” Lovegood looked at the forbidding chair, then glowered at him. “No,” said he, “I will _not_ be seated.” As Gomme rose, and, hiding a smile behind a cough, moved towards the editor’s office, the tragic eyes of Eustace Lovegood turned to the boy Noll, where he sat, still as a statue, on his office-stool: “Ah, Oliver!” said the big man; and a smile shot into his eyes. “How is the boy Oliver?” He was moving towards Noll when the office-door opened, and Caroline, followed by the others, entered the room. “Hah, Caroline--a pleasant surprise indeed!” He took off his hat with the grand air, and swept her a low bow. He strode to her, and, raising her hand to his lips, kissed her white fingers. “What! you too, Miss Julia? I am your servant.” They all smiled affectionately--he was obviously an old friend.