CHAPTER XX. THE END OF WAITING
It was more than a fortnight after Reardon's removal to Islington
when Jasper Milvain heard for the first time of what had
happened. He was coming down from the office of the
Will-o'-the-Wisp one afternoon, after a talk with the editor
concerning a paragraph in his last week's causerie which had been
complained of as libellous, and which would probably lead to the
'case' so much desired by everyone connected with the paper, when
someone descending from a higher storey of the building overtook
him and laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned and saw Whelpdale.
'What brings you on these premises?' he asked, as they shook
hands.
'A man I know has just been made sub-editor of Chat, upstairs. He
has half promised to let me do a column of answers to
correspondents.'
'Cosmetics? Fashions? Cookery?'
'I'm not so versatile as all that, unfortunately. No, the general
information column. "Will you be so good as to inform me, through
the medium of your invaluable paper, what was the exact area
devastated by the Great Fire of London?"—that kind of thing, you
know. Hopburn—that's the fellow's name—tells me that his
predecessor always called the paper Chat-moss, because of the
frightful difficulty he had in filling it up each week. By-the-bye, what a capital column that is of yours in Will-o'-the-Wisp. I know nothing like it in English journalism; upon my word I don't!'
'Glad you like it. Some people are less fervent in their
admiration.'
Jasper recounted the affair which had just been under discussion
in the office.
'It may cost a couple of thousands, but the advertisement is
worth that, Patwin thinks. Barlow is delighted; he wouldn't mind
paying double the money to make those people a laughing-stock for
a week or two.'
They issued into the street, and walked on together; Milvain, with his keen eye and critical smile, unmistakably the modern young man who cultivates the art of success; his companion of a less pronounced type, but distinguished by a certain subtlety of countenance, a blending of the sentimental and the shrewd.
'Of course you know all about the Reardons?' said Whelpdale.
'Haven't seen or heard of them lately. What is it?'
'Then you don't know that they have parted?'
'Parted?'
'I only heard about it last night; Biffen told me. Reardon is
doing clerk's work at a hospital somewhere in the East-end, and
his wife has gone to live at her mother's house.'
'Ho, ho!' exclaimed Jasper, thoughtfully. 'Then the crash has
come. Of course I knew it must be impending. I'm sorry for
Reardon.'
'I'm sorry for his wife.'
'Trust you for thinking of women first, Whelpdale.'
'It's in an honourable way, my dear fellow. I'm a slave to women, true, but all in an honourable way. After that last adventure of mine most men would be savage and cynical, wouldn't they, now? I'm nothing of the kind. I think no worse of women—not a bit. I reverence them as much as ever. There must be a good deal of magnanimity in me, don't you think?'
Jasper laughed unrestrainedly.