“It is very kind of Mrs. Fentolin,” he murmured.
“On these occasions,” Mr. Fentolin continued, “we do not make use of a drawing-room. My niece will come in here presently. You are looking at my books, I see. Are you, by any chance, a bibliophile? I have a case of manuscripts here which might interest you.”
Hamel shook his head.
“Only in the abstract, I fear,” he answered. “I have scarcely opened a serious book since I was at Oxford.”
“What was your year?” Mr. Fentolin asked.
“Fourteen years ago I left Magdalen,” Hamel replied. “I had made up my mind to be an engineer, and I went over to the Boston Institute of Technology.”
Mr. Fentolin nodded appreciatively.
“A magnificent profession,” he murmured. “A healthy one, too, I should judge from your appearance. You are a strong man, Mr. Hamel.”
“I have had reason to be,” Hamel rejoined. “During nearly the whole of the time I have been abroad, I have been practically pioneering. Building railways in the far West, with gangs of Chinese and Italians and Hungarians and scarcely a foreman who isn’t terrified of his job, isn’t exactly drawing-room work.”
“You are going back there?” Mr. Fentolin asked, with interest.