The young men who watched this breezy incident over the blinds of the
London and Provincial Bank were immensely diverted. Even Rickman
laughed as Dicky turned to him his cheerful face buffeted by the wind.
Mr. Pilkington had put up at the same hotel as Rickman, and they found
themselves alone at the dinner-table.
"Glori-orious air this," said Mr. Pilkington. "I don't know how you
feel, young 'un, but there's a voice that tells me I shall dine."
Mr. Pilkington was not deceived by that prophetic voice. He dined with
appetite undiminished by his companion's gloom. From time to time he
rallied him on his coyness under the fascinations of beef-steak, lager
beer, apricots and Devonshire cream.
"Well, Razors," he said at last, "and wot do you think of the Harden
Library?"
Rickman was discreet. "Oh, it isn't bad for a private show. Sir
Frederick doesn't seem to have been much of a collector."
"Wasn't he, though! In his own line he was a pretty considerable
collector, quite a what d'you call 'em--virtuoso."
"Not very much virtue about him, I imagine."
"Well, whatever there may have been, in ten years that joker went
through his capital as if it had been a paper hoop. Slap through it
and out at the other side, on his feet, grinning at you."
"How did he manage it?"
"Cards--horses--women--everything you can name," said Dicky, "that's
amusing, and at the same time expensive. They're precious slow down
here in the country; but get 'em up to town, and there's nothing like
'em for going the pace, when they _do_ go it.
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