“All right, my dear fellow. I daresay you are right. And I am glad to see you are so keen on your work. I only wish Gerald was.”
“Oh, but I think he is really, sir,” said Roland, who, for one horrible moment, had a feeling that he was playing a mean trick on Gerald. At school he had resented the way that little Mark-Grubber Shrimpton had gone up to Crusoe at the end of the hour to ask his questions. He had found a nasty name for such behavior then, and was there so much difference between Shrimpton’s thirst for knowledge and his own desire to travel when he might have been playing cricket? But Mr. Marston speedily reassured him.
“Oh, yes; Gerald—he’s keen enough of course, and, after all, he’s rather different. He’s known all along there was no necessity for him to over-exert himself, and I daresay he’s heard so much shop talked that he’s got pretty sick of the whole thing. You have come fresh to it.”
“Then I may go, sir?”
“Yes, yes, if you want to. I’ll ask Mr. Perkins to make an arrangement. I expect we’ll be able to get rid of you next week.”
And so it was arranged.
Two days before his departure, as he was bounding downstairs on his way to lunch, Roland was suddenly confronted at the turn of the staircase below the second landing by a tall, graceful figure, in a wide-brimmed hat and light crinkly hair. He gave a surprised gasp. “I am so sorry,” he began; then saw that it was Beatrice. “Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Arnold?” It was rather dark and for a moment she did not recognize him.
“Oh, but of course—why, it’s Mr. Whately! And how fortunate! I was wondering how I should ever get to the top of these enormous stairs. I can’t think why you don’t have a lift. I’ve come to see Gerald. Do you think you could run and tell him I’m here? I suppose I should have gone and asked one of your clerks, but they do so embarrass me. Oh, thank you so much. It is kind.”
Within a minute Roland had returned with the news that Gerald had already gone out to lunch, that his secretary did not know where he had gone, but that he had left a message stating that he was not to be expected back before three.
A look of disappointment crossed her face.