Robert Chalmers Fordyce arrived at my house next morning. He brought
with him a budget of condensed but exhaustive information on the subject
of Caerulea, the assimilation and ultimate discharge of which enabled me
to score a signal victory over Mr Wuddiford of Upper Gumbtree,
relegating that champion exploiter of mare's nests to a sphere of
comparative inoffensiveness for quite a considerable time.
After reading the _précis_, I offered Robin the position of my Private
Secretary, which he accepted politely but without servility or
effusiveness. I handed him a quarter's salary in advance, gave him two
days' holiday wherein to "make his arrangements"--_Anglicè_, to
replenish his wardrobe--and we sealed the bargain with a glass of sherry
and a biscuit apiece.
As he rose to go, Robin took from his pocket a folded manuscript.
"I see you have a good fire there," he said.
He stepped across to the hearth-rug and pitched the document into the
heart of the flames, which began to lick it caressingly.
Presently the heat caused the crackling paper to unfold itself, and some
of the writing became visible. Robert pointed, and I read--
_"Pars about Personalities. A capital story is at present going the
round of the clubs, anent----"_
Here the flimsy manuscript burst into flame, and shot with a roar up the
chimney.
I looked at Robert Chalmers Fordyce, and his face was the face of a man
who has gone through deep waters, but feels the good solid rock beneath
his feet at last.
He turned dumbly to me, and held out his hand.
The worst of these inarticulate and undemonstrative people is that they
hurt you so.