Crisparkle, with a significant need complied; and rejoining
Neville, went away with him. They dined together, and parted at
the yet unfinished and undeveloped railway station: Mr. Crisparkle
to get home; Neville to walk the streets, cross the bridges, make a
wide round of the city in the friendly darkness, and tire himself
out.
It was midnight when he returned from his solitary expedition and
climbed his staircase. The night was hot, and the windows of the
staircase were all wide open. Coming to the top, it gave him a
passing chill of surprise (there being no rooms but his up there)
to find a stranger sitting on the window-sill, more after the
manner of a venturesome glazier than an amateur ordinarily careful
of his neck; in fact, so much more outside the window than inside,
as to suggest the thought that he must have come up by the water-
spout instead of the stairs.
The stranger said nothing until Neville put his key in his door;
then, seeming to make sure of his identity from the action, he
spoke:
'I beg your pardon,' he said, coming from the window with a frank
and smiling air, and a prepossessing address; 'the beans.'
Neville was quite at a loss.
'Runners,' said the visitor. 'Scarlet. Next door at the back.'
'O,' returned Neville. 'And the mignonette and wall-flower?'
'The same,' said the visitor.
'Pray walk in.'
'Thank you.'
Neville lighted his candles, and the visitor sat down.
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