At any rate he said he
couldn't have borne his life without them, and for a sceptical,
dismal, cynical fellow like me to hear that was somehow flattering.
The mere force of contrast did me good. I used to come back on the
Monday wondering that Derrick didn't cut his throat, and realising
that, after all, it was something to be a free agent, and to have
comfortable rooms in Montague Street, with no old bear of a drunkard
to disturb my peace. And then a sort of admiration sprang up in my
heart, and the cynicism bred of melancholy broodings over solitary
pipes was less rampant than usual.
It was, I think, early in the new year that I met Lawrence Vaughan
in Bath. He was not staying at Gay Street, so I could still have
the vacant room next to Derrick's. Lawrence put up at the York
House Hotel.
"For you know," he informed me, "I really can't stand the governor
for more than an hour or two at a time."
"Derrick manages to do it," I said.
"Oh, Derrick, yes," he replied, "it's his metier, and he is well
accustomed to the life. Besides, you know, he is such a dreamy,
quiet sort of fellow; he lives all the time in a world of his own
creation, and bears the discomforts of this world with great
philosophy.
Pages:
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64