Shyness barred him from the evening gatherings, and what was going on
in that house, with young bloods like Ted Pringle, Albert Parsons,
Arthur Brown, and Joe Blossom (to name four of the most assiduous)
exercising their fascinations at close range, he did not like to
think. Again and again he strove to brace himself up to join the feasts
of reason and flows of soul which he knew were taking place nightly
around the object of his devotions, but every time he failed. Habit is
a terrible thing; it shackles the strongest, and Tom had fallen into
the habit of inquiring after Mr Williams' rheumatism over the garden
fence first thing in the morning.

It was a civil, neighbourly thing to do, but it annihilated the only
excuse he could think of for looking in at night. He could not help
himself. It was like some frightful scourge--the morphine habit, or
something of that sort. Every morning he swore to himself that nothing
would induce him to mention the subject of rheumatism, but no sooner
had the stricken old gentleman's head appeared above the fence than
out it came.

'Morning, Mr Williams.'

'Morning, Tom.'

Pause, indicative of a strong man struggling with himself; then:

'How's the rheumatism, Mr Williams?'

'Better, thank'ee, Tom.'

And there he was, with his guns spiked.