CHAPTER LXXXV
Ernest being about two and thirty years old and having had his fling for
the last three or four years, now settled down in London, and began to
write steadily. Up to this time he had given abundant promise, but had
produced nothing, nor indeed did he come before the public for another
three or four years yet.
He lived as I have said very quietly, seeing hardly anyone but myself,
and the three or four old friends with whom I had been intimate for
years. Ernest and we formed our little set, and outside of this my
godson was hardly known at all.
His main expense was travelling, which he indulged in at frequent
intervals, but for short times only. Do what he would he could not get
through more than about fifteen hundred a year; the rest of his income he
gave away if he happened to find a case where he thought money would be
well bestowed, or put by until some opportunity arose of getting rid of
it with advantage.
I knew he was writing, but we had had so many little differences of
opinion upon this head that by a tacit understanding the subject was
seldom referred to between us, and I did not know that he was actually
publishing till one day he brought me a book and told me flat it was his
own.
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