He was uncommonly surprised, yet somehow not surprised at all. People were congratulating him. There was a perfect mob of them. Moreover, he knew them all—vaguely remembered them, at least. And they all knew him.
“Isn’t it a game?“ laughed some one, patting him on the back. ”They haven’t the least idea ...!”
And the speaker—it was old John Palmer, the bookkeeper at the office—emphasised the “they.”
“Not the least idea,” he answered with a smile, saying something he didn’t understand, yet knew was right.
His face, apparently, showed the utter bewilderment he felt. The shock of the collision had been greater than he realised evidently. His mind was wandering. ... Possibly! Only the odd thing was—he had never felt so clear-headed in his life. Ten thousand things grew simple suddenly. But, how thickly these people pressed about him, and how—familiarly!
“My parcels,” he said, joyously pushing his way across the throng. “These are Christmas presents I’ve bought for them.” He nodded toward the room. “I’ve saved for weeks—stopped cigars and billiards and—and several other good things—to buy them.”
“Good man!” said Palmer with a happy laugh. “It’s the heart that counts.”
Mudbury looked at him. Palmer had said an amazing truth, only—people would hardly understand and believe him. ... Would they?
“Eh?” he asked, feeling stuffed and stupid, muddled somewhere between two meanings, one of which was gorgeous and the other stupid beyond belief.
“If you please, Mr. Mudbury, step inside. They are expecting you,” said a kindly, pompous voice. And, turning sharply, he met the gentle, foolish eyes of Sir James Epiphany, a director of the Bank where he worked.