"I'll tidy this place up first," said Trevor. He felt that the work
would be a relief. "I don't want people to see this. It mustn't get
about. I'm not going to have my study turned into a sort of side-show,
like Mill's. You go and change. I shan't be long."

"I will never desert Mr Micawber," said Clowes. "Friend, my place is by
your side. Shut the door and let's get to work."

Ten minutes later the room had resumed a more or less--though
principally less--normal appearance. The books and chairs were back in
their places. The ink was sopped up. The broken photographs were
stacked in a neat pile in one corner, with a rug over them. The
mantelpiece was still empty, but, as Clowes pointed out, it now merely
looked as if Trevor had been pawning some of his household gods. There
was no sign that a devastating secret society had raged through the
study.

Then they adjourned to Clowes' study, where Trevor sank into Clowes'
second-best chair--Clowes, by an adroit movement, having appropriated
the best one--with a sigh of enjoyment. Running and passing, followed
by the toil of furniture-shifting, had made him feel quite tired.

"It doesn't look so bad now," he said, thinking of the room they had
left. "By the way, what did you do with that card?"

"Here it is. Want it?"

"You can keep it. I don't want it."