When Mr. Kendal returned home he looked much discomposed, though his
first words were, 'Thank Heaven, it is no fever! Albinia, we must
look after that poor lad; he is positively poisoned by that
pestiferous river and bad living! Bowles said he was sure he was not
eating meat enough. I dare say that greasy woman gives him nothing
fit to eat! Albinia, you must talk to him--find out whether old
Goldsmith gives him a decent salary!'
'He ought not to be in those lodgings another day. I suppose Miss
Goldsmith had no notion what they were. I fancy she never saw the
Lower Wharf in her life.'
'I never did till to-day,' said Mr. Kendal. 'It was all of a piece--
the whole street--the room--the furniture--why the paper was coming
off the walls! What could they be dreaming of! And there he was,
trying to read a little edition of Prodentius, printed at Salamanca,
which he picked up at a bookstall at Galway. It must have belonged
to some priest educated in Spain. He says any Latin book was
invaluable to him. He is infinitely too good for his situation, and
the Goldsmiths are neglecting him infamously. Look out some rooms
fit for him, Albinia.'
'I will try. Let me see--if I could only recollect any; but Mr. Hope
has the only really nice ones in the place.'
'Somewhere he must be, if it is in this house.'
'There is poor old Madame Belmarche's still empty, with Bridget
keeping it.
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