CHAPTER LXXVIII
In which the Author goes on a Pleasant Errand
Before I parted with Miss Newcome at the station, she made me promise to
see her on the morrow at an early hour at her brother's house; and having
bidden her farewell and repaired to my own solitary residence, which
presented but a dreary aspect on that festive day, I thought I would pay
Howland Street a visit; and, if invited, eat my Christmas dinner with
Clive.
I found my friend at home, and at work still, in spite of the day. He had
promised a pair of pictures to a dealer for the morrow. "He pays me
pretty well, and I want all the money he will give me, Pen," the painter
said, rubbing on at his canvas. "I am pretty easy in my mind since I have
become acquainted with a virtuous dealer. I sell myself to him, body and
soul, for some half-dozen pounds a week. I know I can get my money, and
he is regularly supplied with his pictures. But for Rosey's illness we
might carry on well enough."
Rosey's illness? I was sorry to hear of that: and poor Clive, entering
into particulars, told me how he had spent upon doctors rather more than
a fourth of his year's earnings.
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