His
friendships of the previous portion had been the friendships of the
railway-carriage and the smoking room, the _cafe_ and the gaming-table.
He could count upon his fingers the people to whom he could apply for
counsel in this crisis of his life. There was George Sheldon, a man for
whom he entertained a most profound contempt; Captain Paget, a man who
might or might not be able to give him good advice, but who would
inevitably sacrifice Charlotte Halliday's welfare to self-interest, if
self-interest could be served by the recommendation of an incompetent
adviser.
"He would send me to some idiot of the Doddleson class, if he thought he
could get a guinea or a dinner by the recommendation," Valentine said to
himself, and decided that to Horatio Paget he would not apply. There were
his employers, the editors and proprietors of the magazines for which he
worked; all busy over-burdened workers in the great mill, spending the
sunny hours of their lives between a pile of unanswered letters and a
waste-paper basket; men who would tell him to look in the Post-office
Directory, without lifting their eyes from the paper over which their
restless pens were speeding.
No. Amongst these was not the counsellor whom Valentine Hawkehurst needed
in this dire hour of difficulty.
"There are some very good fellows among the Ragamuffins," he said to
himself, as he thought of the only literary and artistic club of which he
was a member; "fellows who stuck by me when I was down in the world, and
who would do anything to serve me now they know me for an honest worker.
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