married, Fledgeby’s father laid hold of the cash for his separate use and benefit. This led to subjective differences of opinion, not to say objective interchanges of bootjacks, backgammon boards, and other such domestic missiles, between Fledgeby’s father and Fledgeby’s mother, and those led to Fledgeby’s mother spending as much money as she could, and to Fledgeby’s father doing all he couldn’t to restrain her. Fledgeby’s childhood had been, in consequence, a stormy one; but the winds and the waves had gone down in the grave, and Fledgeby flourished alone.
He lived in chambers in the Albany, did Fledgeby, and maintained a spruce appearance. But his youthful fire was all composed of sparks from the grindstone; and as the sparks flew off, went out, and never warmed anything, be sure that Fledgeby had his tools at the grindstone, and turned it with a wary eye.
Mr. Alfred Lammle came round to the Albany to breakfast with Fledgeby. Present on the table, one scanty pot of tea, one scanty loaf, two scanty pats of butter, two scanty rashers of bacon, two pitiful eggs, and an abundance of handsome china bought a secondhand bargain.
“What did you think of Georgiana?” asked Mr. Lammle.
“Why, I’ll tell you,” said Fledgeby, very deliberately.
“Do, my boy.”
“You misunderstand me,” said Fledgeby. “I don’t mean I’ll tell you that. I mean I’ll tell you something else.”
“Tell me anything, old fellow!”
“Ah, but there you misunderstand me again,” said Fledgeby. “I mean I’ll tell you nothing.”
Mr. Lammle sparkled at him, but frowned at him too.