'Tom,' he said, as they were walking along, 'I begin to think you must
be somebody's son.'
'I suppose I am,' Tom answered in his quiet way.
'But I mean somebody's of consequence.'
'Bless your heart,' replied Tom, 'my poor father was of no consequence,
nor my mother either.'
'You remember them perfectly, then?'
'Remember them? oh dear yes. My poor mother was the last. She died when
Ruth was a mere baby, and then we both became a charge upon the savings
of that good old grandmother I used to tell you of. You remember! Oh!
There's nothing romantic in our history, John.'
'Very well,' said John in quiet despair. 'Then there is no way of
accounting for my visitor of this morning. So we'll not try, Tom.'
They did try, notwithstanding, and never left off trying until they
got to Austin Friars, where, in a very dark passage on the first floor,
oddly situated at the back of a house, across some leads, they found a
little blear-eyed glass door up in one corner, with Mr FIPS painted on
it in characters which were meant to be transparent. There was also a
wicked old sideboard hiding in the gloom hard by, meditating designs
upon the ribs of visitors; and an old mat, worn into lattice work,
which, being useless as a mat (even if anybody could have seen it, which
was impossible), had for many years directed its industry into another
channel, and regularly tripped up every one of Mr Fips's clients.
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