“Don't they?” said Tony, not even vaguely guessing at whose prejudices he was hinting, but feeling bound to say something.
“No, they don't,” rejoined Mr. Darner, in a half-confidential way. “There is such a deal of it,—fellows who were in the same 'eleven' at Oxford, or widows of tutors, or parties who wrote books,—I think they are the worst, but all are bores, immense bores! You want to get something, don't you?”
Tony smiled, as much at the oddity of the question as in acquiescence.
“I ask,” said the other, “because you'll have to come to me: I 'm private secretary, and I give away nearly all the office patronage. Come upstairs;” and with this he led the way up a very dirty staircase to a still dirtier corridor, off which a variety of offices opened, the open doors of which displayed the officials in all forms and attitudes of idleness,—some asleep, some reading newspapers, some at luncheon, and two were sparring with boxing-gloves.
“Sir Harry writes the whole night through,” said Mr. Damer; “that's the reason these fellows have their own time of it now;” and with this bit of apology he ushered Tony into a small but comfortably furnished room, with a great coal-fire in the grate, though the day was a sultry one in autumn.
Mr. Skeffington Darner's first care was to present himself before a looking-glass, and arrange his hair, his whiskers, and his cravat; having done which, he told Tony to be seated, and threw himself into a most comfortably padded arm-chair, with a writing-desk appended to one side of it.
“I may as well open your letter. It's not marked private, eh?”
“Not marked private,” said Tony, “but its contents are strictly confidential.”
“But it will be in the waste-paper basket to-morrow morning for all that,” said Darner, with a pitying compassion for the other's innocence. “What is it you are looking for,—what sort of thing?”
“I scarcely know, because I 'm fit for so little; they tell me the colonies, Australia or New Zealand, are the places for fellows like me.”