Daggers Drawn
The two young men, having seen the damsels, their charges, enter the courtyard of the Nuns’ House, and finding themselves coldly stared at by the brazen doorplate, as if the battered old beau with the glass in his eye were insolent, look at one another, look along the perspective of the moonlit street, and slowly walk away together.
“Do you stay here long, Mr. Drood?” says Neville.
“Not this time,” is the careless answer. “I leave for London again, tomorrow. But I shall be here, off and on, until next Midsummer; then I shall take my leave of Cloisterham, and England too; for many a long day, I expect.”
“Are you going abroad?”
“Going to wake up Egypt a little,” is the condescending answer.
“Are you reading?”
“Reading?” repeats Edwin Drood, with a touch of contempt. “No. Doing, working, engineering. My small patrimony was left a part of the capital of the Firm I am with, by my father, a former partner; and I am a charge upon the Firm until I come of age; and then I step into my modest share in the concern. Jack—you met him at dinner—is, until then, my guardian and trustee.”
“I heard from Mr. Crisparkle of your other good fortune.”
“What do you mean by my other good fortune?”