“I have no doubt but that, in time, a man of your ability––”
“How long a time?”
“As to that I am not prepared to give an opinion,” replied Barton.
“Because it isn’t when I’m eighty that I want it.”
“I should say the matter was entirely in your own hands. This at least offers you an opening, and I advise you to accept it. However, you must decide for yourself; and if at any later date I may be of service––”
Don returned to the lounge to think the matter over. It was ten o’clock and he had not yet breakfasted. As he had neglected to send any provisions to the house, Nora, acting upon his orders of the day before, had not prepared anything for him––there was nothing to prepare.
However, whether he ate breakfast or not was a detail. That is to say, it was a detail when he left the house; but now, after the brisk walk to the club in the snapping cold air, it had grown in importance. Watson, on his way into the dining-room, passed him.
“Join me?” he asked, waving a greeting with the morning paper.