Mr. Fildew having shut the door of his lodgings behind him, walked slowly down the street with the preoccupied air of a man who is busily communing with himself. "I must ask Clem to lend me half a sovereign," he muttered. "The necessity is an unpleasant one, but there's no help for it. I feel certain I could have given that fellow last night a drubbing at a carom game, but he was too many for me at the spot stroke. _Experientia docet_."
Unfastening a couple of buttons of his frock-coat, Mr. Fildew inserted a thumb and finger into his waistcoat pocket, and drew therefrom a sixpence. "My last coin," he murmured. "I really must not touch a cue again for another month."
Mr. Fildew was methodical in many of his habits. There was one tavern at which he made a point of calling within ten minutes of leaving home every afternoon. It had a little dark, private bar with cane-bottomed stools, where the gas was kept half turned on all day long. Here Punch and other comic papers were always to be found. Somehow, Mr. Fildew liked the place, but although he had called at it daily for years, no one behind the bar knew either his name or anything about him. He now pushed open the swing-doors and went in. In answer to his nod--there was no need for him to speak--the barman brought him fourpennyworth of brown brandy and cold water, together with a minute portion of cheese on the point of a knife. Mr. Fildew munched his cheese, glanced at the cartoon in Punch, sipped up his brandy-and-water, nodded a second time to the barman, and went.
Mr. Fildew walked jauntily along, whistling under his breath. The brandy had imparted a glow to his feelings and a glow to his imagination: the flame would soon drop down again, he knew, but he was philosopher enough to enjoy it while it lasted.
Elderly, shabby-genteel individuals are by no means scarce about the West End of London on sunny afternoons--inveterate _flâneurs_ whose "better days" are over forever. But Mr. Fildew was something more than merely shabby-genteel there was about him a style, a carriage, an air undefinable, but not to be mistaken, of broken-down distinction, which induced many passers-by to turn and glance at him a second time as he "took" the pavement with his slow military stride, his eyes fixed straight before him, and his nose held high in air.