“No; only two or three days.”
“And how,” with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the major’s apartments, “do you find the old man?”
“Well, I never knew until now, that his mind was rather—affected. He has not written to me for years, and I only got his address with difficulty.”
“Yes, he prefers to lie low—as Mr. Jones. But ‘rather affected,’ is putting it mildly.”
“Do you think so?” considering Cardozo with a pair of hostile eyes.
“You will think so too before long. Now don’t be vexed with me, my dear boy. No one is ever angry with Ferdy Cardozo, they know I am a good fellow, and that I mean well. Shall we go inside and see if there is anything to be had to eat?”
“Certainly, I ought to have thought of it before.”
“Oh, please don’t apologize, I’m quite at home. Fuzzil, you fat lazy swine,” to the now obsequious bearer, “get me something to eat, none of your dogs’ food—such as brain cutlets or Irish stew, and bring up some of my wine. It’s very hot in here, awfully frousty,” opening a window. “The major hates me like poison, and when he hears I’m in the house he won’t come out, he will go to ground like a snake, but I shall be off to-morrow.”
“Yes?” interrogatively.
“Are you in the army?” continued Fernandez with half-closed eyes.