So
Pilkington rootling in Miss Harden's affairs; Pilkington posing as
Miss Harden's adviser; Pilkington adorning his obscene conversation
with Miss Harden's name, was to Rickman an infinitely more abominable
beast than Pilkington behaving according to his nature. But to quarrel
with Pilkington on this head would have provoked the vulgarest of
comments, and for Miss Harden's sake he restrained himself.
Dicky remained unconscious. "I'm glad you put me up to offering some
of those books back. It goes against me to sell them, but what the
devil am I to do?"
"_I_ can't tell you."
"I shan't collar all this furniture, either. I'll buy in some of it
and return it. The decent thing would be to give her back poor
Freddy's portrait."
He passed his hand over a bunch of bananas,--he selected one, pinched
it, smelt it, put it down and took another.
"It's a pity it's a Watts, that portrait," he murmured dreamily. He
seemed to be wrestling with himself; and apparently he overcame. When
he had eaten his banana his face was flushed and almost firm.
"I'll not take it. He sticks in my throat, does Freddy."
Rickman left the table. If he had disliked Dicky when he was callous,
he loathed him when he was kind.
He threw open the window, and sat on the ledge. The breeze had died
down and the heat in the little hotel was stifling. Across the passage
glasses clinked in the bar, sounding a suitable accompaniment to the
voice of Dicky.
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