A shave, followed by a hot bath, a change into "slacks," a light luncheon, and a pipe. Then he attacked his accumulated mail. He had scarcely sorted his home from his official letters—the latter could well wait—when his head house boy came in rather breathless.
"Morena," he said, "what is to-day?"
"What do you mean, the day of the month or of the week, and why do you ask?"
"Oh no," said the boy, "but what is the number of the day?"
"Tuesday the sixth. Why?"
"It is only that I wanted to know, for has not the Morena been absent for a great many days?"
"Well, it's the sixth, Tuesday the sixth of September."
"Thank you, Morena."
The boy withdrew.
The Native Commissioner turned to his letters again. His mother had written pages telling him of his sister's engagement to his oldest friend; his sister wrote more pages about her happiness; his father referred to his younger brother at Oxford, to the engagement just announced, and described the latest strike at some length.