"As near heaven as I am likely to get," rattled on Beecot, deftly frying the sausages, after placing his visitor on the sofa. "The grub will soon be ready. I'm a first-class cook, bless you, old chap. Housemaid too. Clean, eh?" He waved the fork proudly round the ill-furnished room. "I'd dismiss myself if it wasn't."
"But--but," stammered Hay, much amazed, and surveying things through an eye-glass. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to get my foot on the first rung of Fame's ladder."
"Read Balzac's life and you will. His people gave him an attic and a starvation allowance in the hope of disgusting him. Bar the allowance, my pater has done the same. Here's the attic, and here's my starvation"--Paul gaily popped the frizzling sausages on a chipped hot plate--"and here's your aspiring servant hoping to be novelist, dramatist, and what not--to say nothing of why not? Mustard, there you are. Wait a bit. I'll brew you tea or cocoa."
"I never take those things with meals, Beecot."
"Your kit assures me of that. Champagne's more in your line. I say, Grexon, what are you doing now?"
"What other West-End men do," said Grexon, attacking a sausage.
"That means nothing. Well, you never did work at Torrington, so how can I expect the leopard to change his saucy spots."
Hay laughed, and, during the meal, explained his position. "On leaving school I was adopted by a rich uncle," he said. "When he went the way of all flesh he left me a thousand a year, which is enough to live on with strict economy. I have rooms in Alexander Street, Camden Hill, a circle of friends, and a good appetite, as you will perceive. With these I get through life very comfortably."
"Ha!" said Paul, darting a keen glance at his visitor, "you have the strong digestion necessary to happiness. Have you the hard heart also? If I remember at school--"
"Oh, hang school!" said Grexon, flushing all over his cold face. "I never think of school. I was glad when I got away from it. But we were great friends at school, Paul."
"Something after the style of Steerforth and David Copperfield," was Paul's reply as he pushed back his plate; "you were my hero, and I was your slave. But the other boys--" He looked again.
"They hated me, because they did not understand me, as you did."