probably of my own. In any case he would have been the listener.
At the corner of one of the southward streets he stopped; my way lay up Chancery Lane, so that we seemed to be on the point of parting.
"Where do you dig?" he suddenly asked, detaining me. "Are you in any hurry?"
"Up in Bloomsbury," I replied, with just the discreet touch of ambiguity. "No, it doesn't matter what time I get there. Why?"
"Do you care to see my place?" he asked. "You might have a drop of something to carry you along."
This unexpected offer was rather exciting in its way. Generous enough after his own fashion, Melwish did not incline towards private hospitality; even the quarter of London he homed in was a matter of occasional speculation. He alone among us possessed a club address.
"I should be delighted if it's not troubling you," I replied—we were always rather on our company manners with this seasoned adult. "I had no idea that you lived anywhere round here."
"I don't; it's only a workroom that I have. . . . I suppose," he added thoughtfully, "you really wonder that my particular sort of sludge should require any particular place to turn it out in? I expect you youngsters guy it pretty well when I'm not there."
This made matters rather easier, as I could be virtuously indignant.
"I bet we jolly well wish we could do half as well," I exclaimed, possibly with a mental reservation that I spoke financially. "We only wonder that you should ever think it worth while to come among us."
We had reached Melwish's outer door. He turned in the act of opening it to face me as he spoke.
