"Explain!" Mr. Wackerbath gasped; "why—no, if I speak just now, I shall be ill: you tell him," he added, waving a plump hand in Beevor's direction.
"I'm not in possession of all the facts," said Beevor, smoothly; "but, so far as I can gather, this gentleman thinks that, considering the importance of the work he intrusted to your hands, you have given less time to it than he might have expected. As I have told him, that is a matter which does not concern me, and which he must discuss with you."
So saying, Beevor retired to his own room, and shut the door with the same irreproachable discretion, which conveyed that he was not in the least surprised, but was too much of a gentleman to show it.
"Well, Mr. Wackerbath," began Horace, when they were alone, "so you're disappointed with the house?"
"Disappointed!" said Mr. Wackerbath, furiously. "I am disgusted, sir, disgusted!"
Horace's heart sank lower still; had he deceived himself after all, then? Had he been nothing but a conceited fool, and—most galling thought of all—had Beevor judged him only too accurately? And yet, no, he could not believe it—he knew his work was good!
"This is plain speaking with a vengeance," he said; "I'm sorry you're dissatisfied. I did my best to carry out your instructions."
"Oh, you did?" sputtered Mr. Wackerbath. "That's what you call—but go on, sir, go on!"
"I got it done as quickly as possible," continued Horace, "because I understood you wished no time to be lost."
"No one can accuse you of dawdling over it. What I should like to know is how the devil you managed to get it done in the time?"