excellent young men and Fox was, ethically speaking, far from excellent,
middle-aged, rubicund, leery--a free lance of genius. I made the
necessary change in my tone of mind and ran him to earth.

The Watteau room was further enlivened by the introduction of a scarlet
plush couch of sumptuous design. By its side stood a couple of electric
lights. The virulent green of their shades made the colours of the
be-shepherded wall-panels appear almost unearthly, and threw impossible
shadows on the deal partition. Round the couch stood chairs with piles
of papers neatly arranged on them; round it, on the floor, were more
papers lying like the leaves of autumn that one sings of. On it lay Fox,
enveloped in a Shetland shawl--a good shawl that was the only honest
piece of workmanship in the torn-tawdry place. Fox was as rubicund as
ever, but his features were noticeably peaked and there were heavy lines
under his eyes--lines cast into deep shadow by the light by which he was
reading. I entered unannounced, and was greeted by an indifferent upward
glance that changed into one of something like pleasure as he made out
my features in the dim light.

"Hullo, you old country hawbuck," he said, with spasmodic jocularity;
"I'm uncommon glad to see you." He came to a jerky close, with an
indrawing of his breath. "I'm about done," he went on. "Same old
thing--sciatica. Took me just after I got here this afternoon; sent out
one of the messengers to buy me a sofa, and here I've been ever since.
Well, and what's brought you up--don't answer, I know all about it. I've
got to keep on talking until this particular spasm's over, or else I
shall scream and disturb the flow of Soane's leader. Well, and now
you've come, you'll stop and help me to put the _Hour_ to bed, won't
you? And then you can come and put me to bed."