CHAPTER IX. Glorious Conclusion of Michael Finsbury's Holiday

I know Michael Finsbury personally; my business--I know the awkwardness

of having such a man for a lawyer--still it's an old story now, and

there is such a thing as gratitude, and, in short, my legal business,

although now (I am thankful to say) of quite a placid character, remains

entirely in Michael's hands. But the trouble is I have no natural talent

for addresses; I learn one for every man--that is friendship's offering;

and the friend who subsequently changes his residence is dead to me,

memory refusing to pursue him. Thus it comes about that, as I always

write to Michael at his office, I cannot swear to his number in the

King's Road. Of course (like my neighbours), I have been to dinner

there. Of late years, since his accession to wealth, neglect of

business, and election to the club, these little festivals have become

common. He picks up a few fellows in the smoking-room--all men of Attic

wit--myself, for instance, if he has the luck to find me disengaged; a

string of hansoms may be observed (by Her Majesty) bowling gaily through

St James's Park; and in a quarter of an hour the party surrounds one of

the best appointed boards in London.

But at the time of which we write the house in the King's Road (let us

still continue to call it No. 233) was kept very quiet; when Michael

entertained guests it was at the halls of Nichol or Verrey that he would

convene them, and the door of his private residence remained closed

against his friends. The upper storey, which was sunny, was set apart

for his father; the drawing-room was never opened; the dining-room was

143

The Wrong Box