‘Not bad wine,’ he said, with a sigh of comfort, ‘and not a bad dinner, I can tell you, to a man fresh from the backwoods. Ben, I’ve got a wretched thing to do, and I want you to go with me. You’re out of spirits, at any rate, and it will do you no harm.’
‘I am going to see the mother of the poor fellow I told you of. She’s a widow living somewhere about Manchester Square. I rather think he was the only son. He made a mull of it at some of those confounded examinations, and rushed out to Australia in despair; and all went wrong with him there, and he squared it off, as I told you. I have to take her some of his things. You look more like the kind of thing, with your black clothes and your grave face, than I do. Stand by me, Ben, and I’ll stand by you.’
‘As you please,’ said Ben, languidly. Already the familiarity of his new-old friend jarred on him a little. But he did not care what he did at that moment; he did not much care even what became of him. He had nothing to do and nobody to see. It was as easy to go to Manchester Square as anywhere else, though the locality was not delectable. He suffered Hillyard to take his arm and draw him along, without much interest one way or another, not seeing how his compliance with such a trifling request could particularly affect even the hour of time which it occupied, much less his character or his life.