“You’re the best superintendent I’ve ever had, Ned. I’m more than satisfied with you. And as long as your good judgment about tenants seems to have simplified your work at the building, you may feel you can branch out a little. You know Sparling is leaving me the first of the month.”
“The Montgomery street property!” Heaton’s face crimsoned with pleasure. “Oh, thank you,—I’d like to try that.”
“Well, we’ll see.” The elder man went back to his coffee, the habitual look of gravity again settling upon his face.
Heaton was a full minute collecting himself. “What I came for this morning,” he began at last, “was a personal matter.”
“Yes?”
“I stayed up Arroyo way over Sunday. Mrs. George Thorburn spoke of you, and asked me to bring you a letter and—and back it up.” He took an envelope from a pocket, rose and handed it across the table. “Really, I hope you’ll go.” His voice was deep with earnestness. He honoured Austin Knowles,—and pitied him; for he knew how rare had been the other’s devotion to the wife now seven years dead, how sincere was his mourning for her, and how lonely was his life in that big stone house on the avenue.
“I’m going up again for the rest of my vacation,” Heaton continued. “And I’ll look for you.” He held out his hand.
The elder man took it. “Perhaps,” he said absent-mindedly. And Heaton passed out.
It was a crested letter, perfumed, and written in a large, modishly angular hand.
Mrs. Thorburn’s invitation was cordial, even pressing. She wrote that the hills were simply lovely now, and that she just knew her dear Mr. Knowles was awfully fagged. So she wanted above all things that he should have a fortnight’s vacation at High Court. “Dorothy will be home,” she went on to say, “and some charming people are visiting me. You will find your stay restful, I am sure, for you shall do as you choose—except at dinner-time—and read or ride or ramble the days away. Dear Mr. Knowles, do come.”