'Have you anyone here?'
'Biffen.'
'Ah, then we'll discuss realism.'
'That's over for the evening. Greek metres also.'
'Thank Heaven!'
The three men seated themselves with joking and laughter, and the
smoke of their pipes gathered thickly in the little room. It was
half an hour before Amy joined them. Tobacco was no disturbance
to her, and she enjoyed the kind of talk that was held on these
occasions; but it annoyed her that she could no longer play the
hostess at a merry supper-table.
'Why ever are you sitting in your overcoat, Mr Biffen?' were her
first words when she entered.
'Please excuse me, Mrs Reardon. It happens to be more convenient
this evening.'
She was puzzled, but a glance from her husband warned her not to
pursue the subject.
Biffen always behaved to Amy with a sincerity of respect which
had made him a favourite with her. To him, poor fellow, Reardon
seemed supremely blessed. That a struggling man of letters should
have been able to marry, and such a wife, was miraculous in
Biffen's eyes. A woman's love was to him the unattainable ideal;
already thirty-five years old, he had no prospect of ever being
rich enough to assure himself a daily dinner; marriage was wildly
out of the question.
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