Since then about a year had elapsed. Mr. Tymperley had seen his friends
perhaps half a dozen times, his enjoyment of their society pathetically
intense, but troubled by any slightest allusion to his mode of life. It had
come to be understood that he made it a matter of principle to hide his
light under a bushel, so he seldom had to take a new step in positive
falsehood. Of course he regretted ceaselessly the original deceit, for Mrs.
Charman, a wealthy woman, might very well have assisted him to some not
undignified mode of earning his living. As it was, he had hit upon the idea
of making himself a bookbinder, a craft somewhat to his taste. For some
months he had lodged in the bookbinder's house; one day courage came to
him, and he entered into a compact with his landlord, whereby he was to pay
for instruction by a certain period of unremunerated work after he became
proficient. That stage was now approaching. On the whole, he felt much
happier than in the time of brooding idleness. He looked forward to the day
when he would have a little more money in his pocket, and no longer dread
the last fortnight of each quarter, with its supperless nights.
Mrs. Weare's invitation to Lucerne cost him pangs.
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