“He don’t ’ardly ever speak to me.”
“And don’t you ever speak to him?”
He fidgeted nervously. “Oh, I passes the time o’ day, like, and tells him if his pants need pressin’ and little things like that.”
“Does he ever say anything about me?”
“Not lately he don’t.”
“Have you any idea why not?”
“I might ’ave a hidea, Slim; but what’s servants’ gossip, after all?”
As he had me there I dropped the subject, stealing round to Cantyre’s quarters about eleven that night.
To my knock, which was timid and self-conscious, he responded with a low “Come in” that lacked the heartiness to which he had accustomed me. As usual at this hour, he was in an elaborate dressing-gown, and also as usual the room was heavy with the scent of flowers. He was not lounging in an arm-chair, but sitting at his desk with his back to me, writing checks.
“Oh, it’s you!” he said, without turning his head.