Everything in and about Victor Carrington's abode was the perfection of
neatness. The presence of poverty was visible, it is true; but poverty
was made to wear its fairest shape. In the snug drawing-room to which
Reginald Eversleigh was admitted all was bright and fresh. White muslin
curtains shaded the French window; birds sang in gilded cages, of
inexpensive quality, but elegant design; and tall glass vases of
freshly cut flowers adorned tables and mantel-piece.
Sir Oswald's nephew looked contemptuously at this elegance of poverty.
For him nothing but the splendour of wealth possessed any charm.
The surgeon came to him while he stood musing thus.
"Do you mind coming to my laboratory?" he asked, after shaking hands
with his unexpected visitor. "I can see that you have something of
importance to say to me, and we shall be safer from interruption
there."
"I shouldn't have come to this fag-end of Christendom if I hadn't
wanted very much to see you, you may depend upon it, Carrington,"
answered Reginald, sulkily. "What on earth makes you live in such an
out-of-the-way hole?"
"I am a student, and an out-of-the-way hole--as you are good enough to
call it--suits my habits. Besides, this house is cheap, and the rent
suits my pocket."
"It looks like a doll's house," said Reginald, contemptuously.
"My mother likes to surround herself with birds and flowers," answered
the surgeon; "and I like to indulge any fancy of my mother's.
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