It was more than possible that there was a highly important letter there, and two or three hours’ delay in opening would mean a serious loss. His last story, for instance, that his London agent was serializing in several countries—yes, it was quite possible some instant information was wanted about it. Or that tale he had offered to an American magazine—probably there was news about it here; it was a decent story too, he would like to find out if it had been appreciated. And [p186] then there were those shares he had taken in that Transvaal concern, suppose news had come of a fall or rise in them? He would not listen to the cold-headed remembrance that whispered that no English, nor American, nor African mail was due to-day. It was perfectly possible that in an undermanned country post office like this these important letters had been left over since last mail and only just delivered. It was really highly important that he should make sure.
He drew the little stack of envelopes towards him and tilted comfortably back while he opened them.
He owed his tailor thirteen pounds eleven and six, he discovered. He discovered that by employing the Reliance Carpet Company his Axminster carpets would be entirely freed from dust and in such a way that he need fear no microbes for his nursery.
The Mission to the Chinese of Wexford Street, and Lower George Street, would be glad of a subscription from him, he learnt.
A Consumptive Hospital, a Crêche for Neglected Infants, a Convalescent Home, an Inebriates’ Retreat all had a similar use for him. While slightly more cheerful, if less urgently necessary methods of spending his money were suggested by requests, (1) to take a few five-shilling tickets for a concert for the purpose of sending a deserving young singer [p187] to Italy; (2) to purchase at a reduction a calf-bound set of the Encyclopædia Cosmopolitana with which the owner, being short of money, was reluctantly compelled to part, and which he, as an author, would doubtless find it to his benefit to acquire; (3) to be present at the banquet of a fellow author, departing for the old country, tickets one guinea. Then there was one typewriting lady who offered to do his work at so much a thousand words, and submitted a sample of her work. And another typewriting lady, who submitted no sample, stated that reverses of fortune had driven her from a high position in the best society to the bitter one of a typist, and she was therefore compelled to solicit his work to enable her to keep herself.
It was quite a pleasant change to discover two people merely wanted his autograph. “Dear sir, I am collecting autographs and have 637; will you please send yours by return post as I enclose a stamp.”
“She encloses a stamp,” murmured Hugh admiringly.
The other seeker accompanied her request with a perfervid letter of praise about his work, but on the heavy autograph album that accompanied the letter he noticed Kate had had to pay tenpence deficient postage and there were no stamps enclosed for the return of the precious volume.
[p188]
A jeweller’s catalogue provided a few minutes’ lighter reading, and its diamond rings and its pearl and diamond necklets and pendants and brooches were so temptingly illustrated, that they awoke the present-giving instinct in the man’s heart and he revolved the question whether etiquette would permit him to give Dora and Beatrice a necklet apiece for their pretty necks and Miss Bibby a chaste brooch. Kate, he reluctantly remembered, cared nothing for jewellery.
But it was upon the last opened missive he wasted most of his time,—possibly because it was the last and Chapter eleven looked large on the horizon again.