XI
THE EMPTY SLEEVE
1
The Gilmer brothers were a couple of fussy and pernickety old bachelors of a rather retiring, not to say timid, disposition. There was grey in the pointed beard of John, the elder, and if any hair had remained to William it would also certainly have been of the same shade. They had private means. Their main interest in life was the collection of violins, for which they had the instinctive flair of true connoisseurs. Neither John nor William, however, could play a single note. They could only pluck the open strings. The production of tone, so necessary before purchase, was done vicariously for them by another.
The only objection they had to the big building in which they occupied the roomy top floor was that Morgan, liftman and caretaker, insisted on wearing a billycock with his uniform after six o’clock in the evening, with a result disastrous to the beauty of the universe. For “Mr. Morgan,” as they called him between themselves, had a round and pasty face on the top of a round and conical body. In view, however, of the man’s other rare qualities—including his devotion to themselves—this objection was not serious.
He had another peculiarity that amused them. On being found fault with, he explained nothing, but merely repeated the words of the complaint.
“Water in the bath wasn’t really hot this morning, Morgan!”
“Water in the bath not reely ’ot, wasn’t it, sir?”
Or, from William, who was something of a faddist:
“My jar of sour milk came up late yesterday, Morgan.”