White and haggard, Stephen stood in shadow-way, his eyes fixed on Jack
and Una with an expression of mingled astonishment and rage beyond all
description.
Jack was too astonished by what seemed as much an apparition as a
reality, to withdraw his arm from round Una's waist, and it was she who
first recovered self-possession enough to cross over to Mrs. Davenant
and wake her.
Her movement seemed to recall Stephen to a sense of the situation, and
in a moment he rose and coped with it.
Another man, a weaker man, coming thus suddenly upon what looked like
the wreck of all his deeply-laid plans, upon seeing the girl, whom it
was all-important he should secure for himself, in the arms of the man
he hated and feared most in the world, would have given vent to his
wrath and disappointment. But not so Stephen. By a vast effort, he
suppressed the evil glance in his eyes, forced a smile to his compressed
lips, and came across the room with outstretched hand and an expression
of warmest and most affectionate greeting.
"My dear Jack!" he exclaimed, in his soft tones, almost rough in their
warmth and geniality. "Now, this is a pleasant surprise. How do you do?
how do you do?"
But almost before Jack knew it, Stephen had seized him by the hand, and
was swinging it convulsively, smiling so that all his teeth glittered
and shone in the candle-light.
Jack was taken by surprise, and returned the greeting cordially; indeed,
what else could he do, seeing that he was in Stephen's mother's house,
and making love to Stephen's _protegee_?
"Quite a surprise!" said Stephen, laughing; and then, still talking to
Jack, he crossed over and bent down to kiss his mother. "How do you do,
my dear mother? Now don't be angry at my taking you so unexpectedly."
"Angry, my dear Stephen!" faltered Mrs. Davenant; and indeed, it was not
anger so much as fear that shone in the timid eyes.
Then, having got himself completely under control, Stephen raised his
eyes to Una, and held out his hand.
"And how do you do, Miss Rolfe? I hope your health has not suffered in
this close London of ours. May I say that there are no signs of such an
ill result in your face?"
Una gave him her hand, and smiled at him in her quiet, grave way.
"I am very well, thank you," she said.
"That's right," said Stephen--"that's right!"
And he stood and looked from one to the other, rubbing his white, soft
hands, and smiling as if he were over-running with the milk of human
kindness.
Meanwhile Mrs. Davenant had risen, and was fluttering about nervously.
"Have you dined, Stephen? We can get some dinner, or--or something
directly."
"My dear mother, I dined at my rooms two hours ago; but if you have a
cup of tea, now; but don't trouble--it does not matter in the
slightest."
Fresh tea was brought in, and Una, as usual, officiated. Stephen,
leaning over a chair-back, talked to Jack and Mrs. Davenant, but his
eyes turned continually on the graceful figure and the beautiful
profile; and not one of them guessed the rage and fury which boiled and
simmered under his calm and amiable exterior.
Already, as if some one had told him, he knew that Una had been out into
the world. Her dress, her manner told him that; and while he smiled
lovingly at his mother, he was crying out inwardly:
"Fool! fool! to trust Una to her."
He took his cup of tea, his hand as steady as a rock, and chatted with
Jack, full of the pleasantest interest.
Where had he been, and what had he been doing? and was he in those
eccentric but charming rooms of his in the Temple still? and how was his
friend Leonard Dagle?
He was full of questions, questions which Jack answered in his curt,
brief fashion. And all the while Stephen was weighing the situation,
realizing all its danger and peril, and determining on a course of
action.
"Just one more cup, Miss Rolfe, if you please. Tea is my favorite
beverage--I am quite an old washerwoman!"
Then he took his cup, and sat down beside her.
"Yes," he said, not in a particularly low tone, but in his softest
manner--"yes, I am glad to see that your health has not suffered in
London. I trust you have been happy?"
Una looked up with a faint flush on her face.
"I have been--I am very, very happy," she said, and Jack's face flushed
too with the delight at the accent on "I am."
"That is right," said Stephen, with the air of an old, old friend, "and
I hope my mother has found some amusement for you--that she has shown
you something of the great world."
"Yes," said Una, and she glanced at Mrs. Davenant, from whose pale face
all traces of the calm serenity which had reigned there during the
earlier part of the evening had entirely fled--"yes, I have been very
gay--is not that the word? I have been to a ball, and to a picnic, and
have seen all the sights."
"And where was the ball?"
"At Lady Earlsley's," said Una.
Stephen opened his eyes and smiled.
"My dear Miss Rolfe, you have penetrated the most exclusive of social
rings! Lady Earlsley's! Come, that is very satisfactory; and Jack--Jack
is my cousin--well, very nearly cousin, you know, I hope he has made
himself useful and agreeable?"
Una glanced shyly and gravely at Jack--a glance that told everything,
even if Stephen had not seen her in Jack's arms.
"Yes," she said, in a low voice, "Mr. Newcombe has been very--kind."
Stephen smiled and showed all his teeth.
"I am afraid there will be nothing left for me to do," he said.
Then, in a lower voice, he added:
"You will be glad to hear that I have news of your father."
Una looked up breathlessly. The question had been hovering on her lips.
Stephen nodded.
"Yes, he wrote me from a place in Surrey called--tut--tut! The name has
escaped me! They are quite well, and send their fondest love."
Una's eyes filled.
"Why did they leave the cottage so suddenly?" she said.
"Because your father wished for a change. I told you truth, you see,
when I said that your departure would be good for him, and wean him from
his seclusion."
"Why does he not come to see me?" asked Una.
"He is coming, my dear Una," said Stephen. "But at present he is very
much engaged, and quite satisfied with my favorable report of your
health and happiness. But come, I must not make you homesick. Were you
not playing when I came in?"
Una flushed.
"Jack--Mr. Newcombe--was playing," she said; "I was singing."
"Pray don't let me interrupt you," said Stephen, genially, "or I shall
feel like an intruder, and walk off again. Jack, go on with your music,
my dear fellow."
But Jack declined promptly, though politely.
"I'm afraid I must be off," he said, looking at his watch, and then at
Una, wistfully.
"Not yet," said Stephen. "I have a whole budget of news to tell you. I
dare say you wonder why I haven't been up before this; but there was so
much to do--a surprising deal."
Jack nodded curtly. He certainly didn't want to finish up this
particular evening by hearing Stephen's talk of the Hurst.
"No doubt," he said. "You must come and dine with me and tell me.
Good-night, Mrs. Davenant!"
Mrs. Davenant gave him her hand.
"Must you go, Jack?" she said, tremulously. "You--you will come again?"
"Most certainly I will," said Jack, significantly.
Una had risen and gone to the piano to gather up the music which Jack,
with his usual untidiness, had scattered about.
He followed her, and knelt down as if to help her.
"Good-night, my darling!" he murmured, touching her arm caressingly.
"Don't be afraid."
Una raised her arm and touched it with her lips.
"Afraid--of whom?"
"Of--nobody!" said Jack, rather ungrammatically.
"Not of Mr. Davenant, who has been so kind?" she whispered, with a
surprised look.
Jack bit his lip.
"No, no; certainly not. Oh, yes, he has been kind."
Then with a long, loving look into her sweet face he crossed the room.
"Good-night, Stephen."
"You are really going? Well, then, I'll go with you," said Stephen.
"Mother will not mind my running away tonight, I am rather tired."
And he stooped and kissed her, and went to the door.
It almost seemed as if he had forgotten Una; but he turned suddenly and
held out his hand, a bland, benevolent smile on his pale face.
"Good-night, good-night," he murmured, softly, and followed after Jack,
who, the moment he reached the pavement, looked out for a hansom; but
Stephen linked his arm in Jack's, and said:
"Are you in a hurry, my dear Jack? If not, I'll walk a little way with
you; or will you come toward my rooms?"
Jack consented to the latter course, by turning in the direction of the
"Albany" in silence.
He felt that Stephen was playing a part--why or wherefore he could not
guess--and now that he had recovered from his surprise at Stephen's
sudden appearance, his old mistrust and dislike were returning to him.
They walked on in silence for some few moments, then Stephen said:
"I wanted to have a few words with you, my dear Jack. I should have
written, but I felt that I could make myself understood better by word
of mouth."
Jack nodded.
"Of course, what I have to say concerns my poor uncle's death and its
consequences."
Jack was silent still. He would not help him in the slightest.
"I cannot but feel that those consequences, while they have been
distinctly beneficial to me, have--and to put it plainly, and I wish to
speak plainly, my dear Jack--have been unfortunate for you."
"Well," said Jack, grimly.
"Well," said Stephen, softly, "I had hoped, I still hope, that you will
allow me the happiness of setting right, to some extent, the wrong--yes,
I will say wrong--done you by my uncle's will."
"That's impossible," said Jack, gravely.
"But, my dear Jack, why not? It is my right. Have you any idea of the
fortune----"
"Not the slightest," said Jack, breaking in abruptly, "and it's no
business of mine; large or small, I hope you'll enjoy it. It was the
squire's to do as he liked with, and I suppose he did as he liked; and
there's an end of it."
Stephen winced and bit his lip.
"And now," said Jack, quietly, but with his heart beating wildly, "I
want a word with you, Stephen."
"Say on, my dear Jack. If there is anything I can do for you----"
"Yes, there is," said Jack. "I want to know--I want you to tell
me--something respecting Miss Rolfe."
"Miss Rolfe!" said Stephen, softly.
"Yes," continued Jack. "You'll want to know, before I go any further, on
what grounds I ask for information. I'll tell you. I have asked Miss
Rolfe to be my wife."
Stephen feigned a start of astonishment.
"My dear Jack, isn't that rather sudden--rather premature?"
"It may be sudden, I don't know whether it is premature; that's for Miss
Rolfe to decide. And she has decided."
Stephen moistened his lips; they burned like coals.
"She has accepted you?"
"She has," said Jack, who felt reluctant to utter one word more than was
necessary.
Stephen pulled up and held out his hand.
"My dear Jack, I congratulate you. I congratulate you," he exclaimed,
fervently. "You are indeed a happy man."
Jack, confounded, allowed his hand to be wrung by the soft, white palm
that burned hot and dry.
"You are a lucky fellow, my dear Jack. Miss Rolfe is one in a thousand.
I question if there is a more beautiful girl in London--and her
disposition. You are indeed a lucky fellow."
"Thanks, thanks!" said Jack, still overwhelmed by this flood of good
will. "And now, perhaps you will tell me what I had better do in the
affair! You see I find her visiting--settled, rather, at your mother's
house, and neither she nor your mother seem to know why or
wherefore----"
Stephen interrupted him with a pressure of the arm.
"I understand, my dear Jack; your anxiety for information is only
natural. I am very glad I came up this evening--very glad! And now, as I
feel rather tired, would you mind coming up to my rooms? and we'll have
a hansom, after all."
Jack hailed a cab, and they were rattled to the Albany.
Of course they could not talk, and Stephen had therefore time to perfect
his scheme; for he had already begun to plot and plan.
The door of the chambers was opened by Slummers, his tall, square figure
dressed in black, his discreet, shifty eyes absolutely veiled under his
lids.
"Let us have some Apollinaris and the liquor-case, Slummers," said
Stephen, "and that box of cigars which Mr. Newcombe liked. Sit down, my
dear Jack."
And he wheeled forward a chair facing the light, and took one for
himself, so that his own face should be shaded.
Jack looked round the room while Slummers brought the tray.
The four walls were nearly covered with books, all of them of the dryest
and most serious kind. Where any space was left, it was filled up with
portraits of eminent divines and philanthropists, and every article in
the room was neatly and methodically arranged. In fact, it presented as
marked a contrast to Jack's rooms as it was possible to conceive.
Jack had not been inside it for years, but he remembered distinctly how
he used to loathe the room and its "fixings."
"Now, my dear Jack, pray help yourself--those cigars I know you approve;
I heard you praise them at the Hurst, and I brought a box at once."
"Thanks," said Jack, and he lit a cigar.
Stephen mixed the Apollinaris and brandy; and leaned back serene and
amiable.
"And now, my dear Jack, I am ready to answer all questions."
Jack looked down and frowned thoughtfully. He did not know how to put
them. Stephen smiled maliciously behind his hand.
"You want to know how it comes about that Miss Rolfe is under my
mother's charge--under my charge, I may say?"
"Under yours?" said Jack, grimly.
Stephen nodded.
"It is a very simple affair, Jack. There is no mystery. The fact is, I
have known Miss Rolfe's father for some years. He is a very good fellow,
but very eccentric."
"I know," said Jack; "I've seen him."
Stephen started, and concealed his expression of surprise by reaching
for his glass.
"Ah, then, no doubt, you noticed that his appearance and manner does not
correspond with the station he occupies?"
"I did," said Jack.
"Yes, yes, just so. Well, my dear Jack, my poor friend Rolfe has been in
early life unfortunate--money matters, which I never quite understand.
Like most men of his kind, he got disgusted with the world and hid
himself--there is no other word for it. But it is one thing to hide
yourself and quite another to bury your children. My friend Rolfe felt
this when he awoke to the fact that his daughter had grown from a child
to a young woman, and like a sensible man he applied to one who was
conversant with the world, and one in whom he could have, I trust, full
confidence--my self."
Jack sat silently regarding the white, calm face with grim, observant
eyes.
"He did not appeal to an old friendship in vain. I undertook the charge
of Miss Rolfe on one condition. I may say two--one on her side, one on
mine. Hers was that she should live with my mother, under her protecting
wing, as it were; mine was that I should be the absolute guardian of the
young girl committed to my charge."
Jack stared.
"You are Una's guardian?" he said, at last, with unconcealed surprise,
as Gideon Rolfe's curse upon the race of Davenants flashed upon his
memory.
Stephen Davenant smiled.
"You are surprised, my dear Jack. But think! It is very natural. Unless
I had unquestionable control over the young lady, how could I answer for
her safety? How guard her against the attacks of fortune hunters----"
Jack started.
"Fortune hunters!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that Una is an
heiress?"
Stephen's face had flushed and turned deadly pale.
He had actually been thinking of Una Davenant while he had been talking
of Una Rolfe.
"You did not hear me out, my dear Jack," he said, softly, recovering his
composure instantly. "I was going to say against the attack of fortune
hunters who might besiege her under the impression that, as my ward, she
would be possessed of wealth, instead of being, as you know, absolutely
penniless."
Jack nodded.
"At any rate," he said, grimly, "I was not so deceived."
"My dear Jack!" exclaimed Stephen, reproachfully, "do you suppose that I
do not know that! You, who are the soul of honor and disinterestedness,
are not likely to be mistaken for a fortune hunter by anyone, least of
all by me, who know and love you so well!"
Jack winced, as the vision of Lady Bell rose before his eyes.
"Go on," he said, impatiently.
"Well, my dear Jack," said Stephen with a smile, and rubbing his hands
softly, "is it not rather for you to go on? I am Una's guardian, you are
her lover."
"I see," said Jack, rising and pacing up and down the room. "You want me
to ask your consent formally. Well, I do so."
Stephen laughed as if at an excellent joke.
"What a grim, thorough-going old bulldog you are, my dear Jack!" he
exclaimed affectionately. "You ask my consent, as if you did not know
that you have it, and my best, my very heartiest wishes into the
bargain. But, Jack, don't you see why I am so pleased--why this makes me
so happy? It is because now you will be compelled to do me the favor of
taking a share of the poor squire's money!"
Jack started as if he had been stung.
"You see, my dear fellow! you can't marry on nothing--now, can you? Love
must have a cottage, and--but I beg your pardon, my dear fellow! I am,
perhaps, going too far. Much to my grief and regret you have never
confided in me as I should have wished, and perhaps--I hope that it may
be so--you have some means----"
Jack paced up and down, the perspiration standing on his knitted brow.
In the ecstatic joy which had fallen upon him like a glamour during
those few short hours with Una, he had absolutely forgotten that he was
penniless, and in debt, and without a prospect in the wide world.
And now it all rushed back upon him; every softly-spoken word of
Stephen's fell upon him like a drop in an icy shower bath, and awoke him
from his dream to the stern reality.
What was he to do? Great Heaven, was he actually driven to accept
Stephen's charity?
A shudder ran through him, a pang of worse than wounded pride.
Become a pensioner of Stephen Davenant's! No, it was simply impossible.
White and haggard with the struggle that was going on within him, he
turned upon the smiling face.
"What you want--what you propose, is impossible," he said, hoarsely. "I
cannot and will not do it. I would rather beg my bread----"
Stephen smiled. It was a delicious moment for him, and he prolonged it.
"My dear Jack! what would Mr. Gideon Rolfe say if I gave his daughter to
a beggar? I use your own words. It is ridiculous. But come, sit down.
Grieved as I am at what I must call your mistaken obstinacy, I can't
help being touched by it. You always were willful, my dear Jack, always.
Alas! it was that very willfulness that estranged you from my uncle----"
"No more of that," said Jack, sternly.
Stephen made a gesture with his hand.
"And it would, if another man were in my place, rob you of your
sweetheart; but it shall not. I am determined to prove to you, my dear
Jack, that my desire to be a friend is sincere and true. Let me think.
There may be some loophole in your pride which I can creep in at."
Jack went back to his seat and lit another cigar, and Stephen appeared
lost in thought, but in reality he watched through his fingers, and
gloated over the despair and trouble depicted on Jack's miserable
countenance.
"Yes, I have it. Come, Jack, you won't refuse assistance when it comes
from the hand of her Majesty? You won't object to a government
appointment?"
"A government appointment?" said Jack, vaguely.
Stephen nodded.
"Yes," he went on. "By a singular chance I have acquired some influence
with the present government. One of these men has a seat in Wealdshire,
which really hangs on the Hurst influence. The squire never interfered,
but I could do so; and--you see, my dear Jack--a snug little sinecure,
say of a thousand a year! It is not much, it is true; but Una has not
been accustomed to wealth so long as to feel a thousand a year to be
poverty."
Jack rose and paced the room. Was he dreaming, or was this a different
Stephen to the one he knew and disliked? He had heard of sudden wealth
as suddenly transforming the nature of a man. Had Stephen's nature
undergone this marvelous change?
He doubted and mistrusted him, but here was the absolute evidence. What
could Stephen gain by this generosity? Nothing--absolutely nothing. It
was strange, passing strange; but who was he that he should refuse to
believe in the generosity and virtue of another man, especially when
that generosity was exerted on his behalf?
Struggling against his suspicion and prejudice, Jack strode round the
table and held out his hand.
"Stephen, I--I have wronged you. You must be a good fellow to behave in
this way, and I--well, I have been a brute, and don't deserve this on
your part."
Stephen winced under the hard grip of the warm, honest hand.
"Not a word more, my dear Jack; not a word more," he exclaimed.
"This--this is really very affecting. You move me very much."
And he pressed his spotless handkerchief to his eyes.
Jack's ardor cooled at once, and the old disgust and suspicion rose; but
he choked them down again, and sat down.
"Not a word more," said Stephen, with a gulp, as if he were swallowing a
flood of tears. "I have long, long felt your coldness and distrust, my
dear Jack, but I vowed to live it down, and prove to you that you have
wronged me. Believe me that my good fortune--my unexpected fortune--was
quite imbittered to me by the thought that you would misjudge me."
Jack pulled at his cigar grimly. Stephen was on the wrong track, and he
saw it, and hastened to change it.
"But now, my dear Jack, we shall understand each other. You will believe
me that I have your welfare deeply at heart. Who else have I to think
of--except my mother, my dear mother? And we may conclude that our
little negotiation as suitor and guardian is ended. Eh, Jack? You shall
have the appointment and Una--lucky fellow that you are--and I shall be
rewarded by seeing you happy."
Jack nodded. The mention of Una had filled him with gratitude. He could
not forget that he owed her in two ways to Stephen.
"You are a good fellow, Stephen," he said, "and you deserve _your_ luck.
After all, you'll make a better master of Hurst than I should. You'll
take care of it."
Stephen sighed. He was going to gloat again.
"I don't know. I wish to do my duty. It is an immense sum of money,
Jack; immense."
Jack nodded again.
"I'm glad of it," he said, easily. "I don't envy you. I did once, and
not very long ago. But I rank Una above the Hurst even, and if I have
her, you are welcome to the Hurst."
Stephen winced, and looked at him from the corners of his eyes. Was
there any significance in the speech? But Jack's face was open and
frank, as usual.
"That's a bargain," said Stephen, laughing.
Jack thought a moment.
"But what about Mr. Rolfe?" he said, dubiously.
"Leave him to me," said Stephen, confidently. "I will manage him. And,
by the way, I think for the present that we had better keep our little
engagement quiet. You understand? He had better hear it from my lips,
and--you quite see, Jack?"
Jack didn't quite see. He would have preferred to go to Gideon Rolfe and
have the matter out--fight it out if need be--but he was, so to speak,
in Stephen's hands.
"Very well," he said.
"And now have another cigar, my dear Jack, you've eaten that one."
But Jack was anxious to go. He wanted to be alone to think over this
strange interview, and realize that Una was his.
"Well, if you will go," said Stephen, reluctantly; "but mind, I shall
expect you to make this your second home."
Jack glanced round rather dubiously.
"And of course we shall see you at the Square?"
This invitation Jack accepted heartily, and once more he wrung Stephen's
hand.
"Good-night, good-night, my dear Jack," said Stephen, and he took a
candle from the table to light him down the stairs, and smiled till
every tooth in his head showed like a grave-stone.
Then, as Jack's heavy step faded away and was lost, Stephen went back
into the room, closed the door, and sinking into a chair sat
motionless, with folded arms and haggard face.
"Yes, yes," he muttered, "I have played the best game--I have gulled
him. Another man would have attempted to thwart him openly, and have
raised a storm. My plan is the wiser. But to think that fate should have
played me such a trick! and I thought she was safe and secure!" and he
wiped the drops of cold sweat from his knitted brow. "Fool, fool that I
was! Better to have left her there in the heart of the Forest! And
yet--and yet--" he mused, "it is not so bad. The man might have been
more powerful and cunning than the idiot whom I have in the hollow of my
hand. Curse him! curse him! I never look on his face but I tremble. I
hate him!" and he stretched out his closed hand as if with a curse.
As he did so it came into contact with Jack's glass.
In a paroxysm of fury he caught up the glass and dashed it into the
fire-place.
It relieved and brought him to his senses.
With a gesture of self-contempt he rose and rang the bell.
Slummers stole in with his noiseless step and stood beside the table
with downcast eyes, which, nevertheless, had taken in the broken
tumbler.
"I've broken a glass, Slummers," said Stephen, with affected
carelessness. "Never mind, leave it till the morning. Now, then, what
have you learned?"
Slummers cleared his throat, and barely opening his thin lips, replied:
"A great deal, considering the time, sir. The young lady at Mrs.
Davenant's----"
"I know all about her," said Stephen, breaking in impatiently. "What
about Mr. Newcombe?"
Nowise embarrassed, Slummers wiped his dry lips with a handkerchief as
spotless as his master's.
"It is as you expected, sir. Mr. Newcombe is in difficulties."
"Ah!" said Stephen, with evident satisfaction.
"He has been playing and giving paper. There are some old bills out,
too. These are in the hands of Moss the money-lender."
Stephen nodded and rubbed his hands.
"I know Moss--a hard man. Go on."
"But they say," continued Slummers, raising his eyes for a moment to his
master's face, "that Mr. Newcombe is going to set things right by
marrying an heiress."
Stephen smiled and leaned back in his chair.
"Oh, they do, do they; and who is this most fortunate young lady?"
"Lady Isabel Earlsley."
Stephen started forward.
"What!"
"Lady Isabel Earlsley," repeated Slummers, without the slightest change
of voice or countenance.
"No--it's a lie!" said Stephen, with a chuckle. "Where did you hear it?"
"At the club. It is the talk of town, sir. Mr. Newcombe has been in
close attendance upon her ladyship for some time. They say that her
ladyship's brougham nearly ran over him, and that she took him home. It
is true; her own coachman told me."
Stephen leaned back and hid his face with his hand, his busy brain at
work on this last turn of the wheel.
"Go on," he said.
"That is all, sir."
Stephen was silent for a minute or two, then he turned to the writing
table and wrote for some minutes.
"Go to Moss to-morrow morning," he said, "and tell him not to press Mr.
Newcombe, and I don't think he will require more than the hint--but you
may say I will buy all Mr. Newcombe's bills at a fair price. Mind! I
want every I O U and bill that Mr. Newcombe gives. You understand?"
"I understand, Mr. Stephen," said Slummers, and a faint, malicious smile
stole over his face.
"And if Mr. Moss likes to oblige Mr. Newcombe with a little loan, I will
take the bill. You understand?"
Slummers nodded.
"Here is the letter to Moss for his own satisfaction. He will not
mention my name."
Slummers took the note. Stephen passed his hand over his forehead, and
turned his back to the light.
"Any--any other news, Slummers?"
Slummers smiled behind his hand.
"I have been to Cheltenham Terrace. We were rightly informed, sir. Old
Mr. Treherne is dead, and Miss Treherne has disappeared."
Stephen drew a breath of relief.
"Indeed," he said. "Very good. Let me see, is there anything else?"
Slummers coughed.
"Nothing, sir, except to remind you that you have to speak at the
charitable meeting tomorrow night."
"Ah, yes, thank you, very good, Slummers. Be good enough to hand me the
last charitable reports. Good-night."