s talking to Maddox. And to have told
the truth, to have said, "Maddy, I'm starving. I haven't had a square
meal for four months," would have sounded too like a beggar's whine.
Whatever he let out later on, it would be mean to spring all that on
Maddox now, covering him with confusion and remorse.

He laughed softly, aware that his very laugh would be used as
evidence against him. "I see. So you all thought I'd been drinking?"

"Well--if you'll forgive my saying so--"

"Oh, I forgive you. It was a very natural supposition."

"I think you'll have to apologise to the Rankins."

"I think the Rankins'll have to apologise to me."

With every foolish word he was more hopelessly immersed.

He insisted on parting with Maddox at the Marble Arch. After all, he
had not borrowed that fifty pounds nor yet that twopence. Luckily
Rankin's brandy enabled him to walk back with less difficulty than he
came. It had also warmed him, so that he did not find out all at once
that he had left his overcoat at Rankin's. He could not go back for
it. He could never present himself at that house again.

It was a frosty night with a bitter wind rising in the east and
blowing up Oxford Street. His attic under the icicled tiles was dark
and narrow as the grave. And on the other side of the thin wall a
Hunger, more infernal and malignant than his own, waited stealthily
for its prey.

CHAPTER LXXI

It was five o'clock, and Dicky Pilkington was at his ease stretched
before the fire in a low chair in the drawing-room of the flat he now
habitually shared with Poppy Grace. It was beatitude to lie there with
his legs nicely toasting, to have his tea (which he did not drink)
poured out for him by the most popular little variety actress in
London, and to know that she had found in him her master. This
evening, his intellect in play under many genial influences, Dicky was
once more raising the paean of Finance. Under some piquant provocation,
too; for Poppy had just informed him, that she "didn't fancy his
business."

"Now, look here," said Dicky, "you call yourself an artist. Well--this
business of mine isn't a business, it's an art. Think of the delicacy
we 'ave to use. To know to a hairsbreadth how far you can go with a
man, to know when to give him his head with the snaffle and when to
draw him in with the curb. It's a feelin' your way all along. Why, I
knew a fellow, a broker--an uncommonly clever chap he was, too--ruined
just for wan