“The deuce it is! Then it must be precious foggy?”
“Very foggy, sir.”
“And raw, then?”
“Chill and bitter,” said Riah, drawing out a handkerchief, and wiping the moisture from his beard and long grey hair as he stood on the verge of the rug, with his eyes on the acceptable fire.
With a plunge of enjoyment, Fledgeby settled himself afresh.
“Any snow, or sleet, or slush, or anything of that sort?” he asked.
“No, sir, no. Not quite so bad as that. The streets are pretty clean.”
“You needn’t brag about it,” returned Fledgeby, disappointed in his desire to heighten the contrast between his bed and the streets. “But you’re always bragging about something. Got the books there?”
“They are here, sir.”
“All right. I’ll turn the general subject over in my mind for a minute or two, and while I’m about it you can empty your bag and get ready for me.”
With another comfortable plunge, Mr. Fledgeby fell asleep again. The old man, having obeyed his directions, sat down on the edge of a chair, and, folding his hands before him, gradually yielded to the influence of the warmth, and dozed. He was roused by Mr. Fledgeby’s appearing erect at the foot of the bed, in Turkish slippers, rose-coloured Turkish trousers (got cheap from somebody who had cheated some other somebody out of them), and a gown and cap to correspond. In that costume he would have left nothing to be desired, if he had been further fitted out with a bottomless chair, a lantern, and a bunch of matches.