‘I am at your disposal, sir,’ said Mr. Warr.
He gathered up two newspaper parcels, each of which leaked ragged hosiery and soiled linen at either end, and pottered along the platform at Paul’s side, subservient and timid. Paul spurted laughter and affected a cough to hide it.
‘Here is the refreshment-room, Mr. Warr,’ he said. ‘May I ask if you care at this moment to administer a coating of varnish to the work of art?’
‘Have I had the pleasure to encounter you before, sir?’ asked Mr. Warr, peering at him sideways across that astonishing nose, with a brown eye bright with moisture. It was like an old cat looking out from the side of a fireplace.
‘Come in and see,’ said Paul.
Mr. Warr went in, and being offered a choice in varnishes, selected cold gin.
‘My highly superior respects, sir. You either know me, or my fame has reached you.’ He smiled a propitiatory smile. ‘I do not recall you, sir.’
‘I have varnished the work of art before to-day,’ said Paul. ‘Do you remember Bucklersbury?’
‘I should do so,’ Mr. Warr returned. ‘I drudged there for eight long years, and had it not been for Mr. Darco’s kindly memories of an old associate, I might have drudged there still. But two and fifty shillings per week, sir, with freedom and travel thrown in, are highly superior to thirty-six, with slavery superadded. But I do not recall your face and figure, sir.’
‘My name is Armstrong,’ said Paul. ‘I worked beside you for a week or two.’