Richard was soon forced to the conclusion that the second writing of his novel was destined¹ to be a failure. For a few days he stuck doggedly² to the task, writing stuff which, as he wrote it, he knew would ultimately be condemned³. Then one evening he stopped suddenly, in the middle of a word, bit the penholder for a moment, and threw it down with a "Damn!" This sort of thing could not continue.  
"Better come up and see my new arrangements at Raphael Street to-night," he said to Jenkins the next day. He wanted a diversion.
 
"Any whisky going?"
 
"Certainly."
 
"Delighted, I'm sure," said Jenkins, with one of his ridiculous polite bows. He regarded these rare invitations as an honour; it was more than six months since the last.
 
They drank whisky and smoked cigars which Jenkins had thoughtfully brought with him, and chattered⁴ for a long time about office matters. And then, as the cigar-ash accumulated, the topics became more personal and intimate. That night Jenkins was certainly in a serious vein⁵; further, he was on his best behaviour, striving to be sympathetic and gentlemanly. He confided⁶ to Richard his aspirations⁷. He wished to learn French and proposed to join a Polytechnic⁸ Institute for the purpose. Also, he had thoughts of leaving home, and living in rooms, like Richard. He was now earning twenty-eight shillings a week; he intended to save money and to give up all intoxicants beyond half a pint⁹ of bitter a day. Richard responded willingly to his mood, and offered sound advice, which was listened to with deference¹⁰. Then the talk, as often aforetime, drifted to the subject of women. It appeared that Jenkins had a desire to "settle down" (he was twenty-one). He knew several fellows in the Walworth Road who had married on less than he was earning.
 
"What about Miss Roberts?" Richard questioned.
 
"Oh! She's off. She's a bit too old for me, you know. She must be twenty-six."
 
"Look here, my boy," said Richard, good-humouredly. "I don't believe you ever had anything to do with her at all. It was nothing but boasting."
 
"What will you bet I can't prove it to you?" Jenkins retorted, putting out his chin, an ominous¹¹ gesture with him.
 
"I'll bet you half-a-crown—no, a shilling."
 
"Done."
 
Jenkins took a leather-case from his pocket, and handed Richard a midget photograph of Miss Roberts. Underneath¹² it was her signature, "Yours sincerely, Laura Roberts."
 
Strange to say, the incident did not trouble Richard in the least.
 
He walked down to Victoria with Jenkins towards midnight, and on returning to his lodging¹³, thought for the hundredth time how futile¹⁴ was his present mode of existence, how bare of all that makes life worth living. Of what avail to occupy pretty rooms, if one occupied them alone, coming into them at night to find t............