‘A quarter past ten; and I have some miles to drive to Kingstown.’
‘And not yet packed, perhaps?’ said the other listlessly.
‘No, sir; nothing ready.’
‘Oh! you’ll be in ample time; I’ll vouch for it. You are one of the rough-and-ready order, who are never late. Not but in this same flurry of yours you have made me forget something I know I had to say; and you tell me you can’t remember it?’
‘No, sir.’
‘And yet,’ said the other sententiously, ‘the crowning merit of a private secretary is exactly that sort of memory. Your intellects, if properly trained, should be the complement of your chief’s. The infinite number of things that are too small and too insignificant for him, are to have their place, duly docketed and dated, in your brain; and the very expression of his face should be an indication to you of what he is looking for and yet cannot remember. Do you mark me?’
‘Half-past ten,’ cried Atlee, as the clock chimed on the mantel-piece; and he hurried away without another word.
It was only as he saw the pitiable penury of his own scanty wardrobe that he could persuade himself to accept of Walpole’s offer.
‘After all,’ he said, ‘the loan of a dress-coat may be the turning-point of a whole destiny. Junot sold all he had to buy a sword, to make his first campaign; all I have is my shame, and here it goes for a suit of clothes!’ And, with these words, he rushed down to Walpole’s dressing-room, and not taking time to inspect and select the contents, carried off the box, as it was, with him. ‘I’ll tell him all when I write,’ muttered he, as he drove away.