The Fourth Generation. Walter Besant

in my mind, Fred. What does it mean? New rig-out, gold chain, ring—what does it mean? Why have you never written?”

      “The circumstances of my departure—you remember, perhaps.”

      The Agent’s face darkened.

      “Yes, yes,” he replied hastily; “I remember. The situation was awkward—very.”

      “You were much worse than I was, but I got all the blame.”

      “Perhaps—perhaps. But it was a long time ago, and—and—well, we have both got on. You are now Barlow—Joseph Barlow.”

      “And you are now Crediton—George Crediton.”

      “Sit down, Fred; let us have a good talk. And how long have you been back?”

      Fred took a chair, and sat down on the opposite side of the table.

      “Only a fortnight or so.”

      “And why didn’t you look me up before?”

      “As I told you, there was some doubt—— However, here I am. Barlow is the name of my Firm, a large and influential Firm.”

      “In Sydney? or Melbourne?”

      “No, up-country—over there.” He pointed over his left shoulder. “That’s why I use the name of Barlow. I am here on the business of the Firm—it brought me to London. It takes me every day into the City—most important transactions. Owing to the magnitude of the operation, my tongue is sealed.”

      “Oh!” There was a little doubt implied by the interjection. “You a business man? You? Why, you never understood the simplest sum in addition.”

      “As regards debts, probably not. As regards assets and property—— But in those days I had none. Prosperity, Chris—prosperity brings out all a man’s better qualities. You yourself look respectable.”

      “I’ve been respectable for exactly four-and-twenty years. I am married. I have a son of three-and-twenty, and a daughter of one-and-twenty. I live in Pembridge Crescent, Bayswater.”

      “And you were by way of being a barrister.”

      “I was. But, Fred, to be honest, did you ever catch me reading a law book?”

      “I never did. And now you’re an Agent.”

      “Say, rather, that I practice in the higher walks of Literature. What can be higher than oratory?”

      “Quite so. You supply the world—which certainly makes a terrible mess of its speeches—with discourses and after-dinner oratory.”

      “Oratory of all kinds, from the pulpit to the inverted tub: from the Mansion House to the Bar Parlour: from the House of Commons to the political gathering.”

      “What does your wife say?”

      “My wife? Bless you, my dear boy, she doesn’t know anything. She doesn’t suspect. At home I’m the prosperous and successful lawyer: they wonder why I don’t take silk.”

      “What? Don’t they know?”

      “Nobody knows. Not the landlord of these rooms. Not the boy outside. Not any of my clients. Not my wife, nor my son, nor my daughter.”

      “Oh! And you are making a good thing out of it?”

      “So good that I would not exchange it for a County Court Judgeship.”

      “It’s wonderful,” said Fred. “And I always thought you rather a half-baked lump of dough.”

      “Not more wonderful than your own success. What a blessing it is, Fred, that you have come home without wanting to borrow any money”—he watched his brother’s face: he saw a cloud as of doubt or anxiety pass over it, and he smiled. “Not that I could lend you any if you did want it—with my expensive establishment. Still, it is a blessing and a happiness, Fred, to be able to think of you as the Head—I believe you said the Head—of the great and prosperous Firm of Barlow & Co.” Fred’s face distinctly lengthened. “I suppose I must not ask a business man about his income?”

      “Hardly—hardly. Though, if any man—— But—I have a partner who would not like these private affairs divulged.”

      “Well, Fred, I’m glad to see you back again—I am indeed.”

      They shook hands once more, and then, for some unknown reason, they were seized with laughter, long and not to be controlled.

      “Distinguished lawyer,” murmured Fred, when the laugh had subsided with an intermittent gurgle.

      “Influential man of business,” said Christopher. “Oh! Ho, Lord!” cried he, wiping his eyes, “it brings back the old times when we used to laugh. What a lot we had to laugh at! The creditors and the duns—you remember?”

      “I do. And the girls—and the suppers! They were good old times, Chris. You carried on shameful.”

      “We did—we did. It’s pleasant to remember, though.”

      “Chris, I’m thirsty.”

      “You always are.”

      His brother remembered this agreeable trait after five-and-twenty years. He got up, opened a cupboard, and took out a bottle and glasses and some soda-water. Then they sat opposite each other with the early tumbler and the morning cigar, beaming with fraternal affection.