Scott was hardly more than a name to him. And though he avowed acquaintance
with one or two works of Dickens, he spoke of them with an uneasy smile, as
if in some doubt as to their tendency. With these intellectual
characteristics, Mr. Spicer naturally found it difficult to appreciate the
attitude of his literary friend, a young man whose brain thrilled in
response to modern ideas, and who regarded himself as the destined leader
of a new school of fiction. Not indiscreet, Goldthorpe soon became aware
that he had better talk as little as possible of the work which absorbed
his energies. He had enough liberality and sense of humour to understand
and enjoy his landlord's conversation, and the simple goodness of the man
inspired him with no little respect. Thus they got along together
remarkably well. Mr. Spicer never ceased to feel himself honoured by the
presence under his roof of one who--as he was wont to say--wielded the pen.
The tradition of Grub Street was for him a living fact. He thought of all
authors as struggling with poverty, and continued to cite
eighteenth-century examples by way of encouraging Goldthorpe and animating
his zeal. Whilst the young man was at work Mr. Spicer moved about the house
with soundless footsteps. When invited into his tenant's room he had a
reverential demeanour, and the sight of manuscript on the bare deal table
caused him to subdue his voice.

The weeks went by, and Goldthorpe's novel steadily progressed. In London he
had only two or three acquaintances, and from them he held aloof, lest
necessity or temptation should lead to his spending money which he could
not spare. The few letters which he received were addressed to a
post-office--impossible to shock the nerves of a postman by requesting him
to deliver correspondence at this dead house, of which the front door had
not been opened for years. The weather was perfect; a great deal of
sunshine, but as yet no oppressive heat, even in the chambers under the
roof. Towards the end of June Mr. Spicer began to amuse himself with a