So it happened about three days later that our American journalist in his London hotel received a letter that a Mr. Henry Harding desired to speak with him. The man was waiting in the hall dressed in quiet tweeds. He had cast his manner with his uniform and was firmly deliberate in all he said and did. The professional silkiness was gone, and his bearing was all that the most democratic could desire.
“It’s courteous of you to see me, sir,” said he. “There’s that matter of the article still open between us, and I would like to have a word or two more about it.”
“Well, I can give you just ten minutes,” said the American journalist.
“I understand that you are a busy man, sir, so I’ll cut it as short as I can. There’s a public
garden opposite if you would be so good as talk it over in the open air.”
The Pressman took his hat and accompanied the footman. They walked together down the winding gravelled path among the rhododendron bushes.
“It’s like this, sir,” said the footman, halting when they had arrived at a quiet nook. “I was hoping that you would see it in our light and understand me when I told you that the servant who was trying to give honest service for his master’s money, and the man who is free born and as good as his neighbour are two separate folk. There’s the duty man and there’s the natural man, and they are different men. To say that I have no life of my own, or self-respect of my own, because there are days when I give myself to the service of another, is not fair treatment. I was hoping, sir, that when I made this clear to you, you would have met me like a man and taken it back.”
“Well, you have not convinced me,” said the American. “A man’s a man, and he’s responsible for all his actions.”
“Then you won’t take back what you said of me—the degradation and the rest?”
“No, I don’t see why I should.”