'I shall be in to dinner,' said Wemyss.
'Yes sir,' said Twite.
Dinner. There usedn't to be dinner. His master hadn't been in once to dinner since Twite knew him. A tray for the lady, while there was a lady; that was all. Mrs. Twite could just manage a tray. Since the lady had left off coming up to town owing to her accident, there hadn't been anything. Only quiet.
He stood waiting, not having been waved out of the room, and anxiously watching Wemyss's face, for he was a nervous man.
Then the telephone bell rang.
Wemyss, without looking up, waved him out to it and went on with his breakfast; and after a minute, noticing that he neither came back nor could be heard saying anything beyond a faint, propitiatory ''Ullo,' called out to him.
'What is it?' Wemyss called out.
'I can't hear, sir,' Twite's distressed voice answered from the hall.
'Fool,' said Wemyss, appearing, table-napkin in hand.
'Yes sir,' said Twite.