A day of headache and incapacity, during which it was all he could do to attend to his mechanical work, and again the miserable loneliness of his attic. It rained, it rained. He had half a mind to seek refuge at some theatre, but the energy to walk so far was lacking. And whilst he stood stupidly abstracted there came a knock at his door.
“I thought I’d just see if you’d got straight,” said Joseph Snowdon, entering with his genial smile.
Sidney made no reply, but turned as if to stir the fire. Hands in pockets, Joseph sauntered to a seat.
“Think you’ll be comfortable here?” he went on. “Well, well; of course it’s only temporary.”
“I don’t know about that,” returned Sidney. “I may stay here as long as I was at the last place,—eight years.”
Joseph laughed, with exceeding good-nature.
“Oh yes; I shouldn’t wonder,” he said, entering into the joke. “Still”—becoming
