With customary quiet attentiveness, Mortimer went through the mail with his employer, who was frequently reassuring himself that his mind was as clear, his answers as sure, and his interest as concentrated as usual. This task finished, Mortimer, with his bundle of letters and notes in hand, instead of going out of the room when he had passed around the desk, turned and faced the man whom he had served for thirty years.
"Mr. Wingfield—"
"Well, Peter?"
John Wingfield, Sr. looked up sharply, struck by Mortimer's tone, which seemed to come from another man. In Mortimer's eye was a placid, confident light and his stoop was less marked.
"Mr. Wingfield, I am getting on in years, now," he said, "and I have concluded to retire as soon as you have someone for my place; the sooner, sir, the more agreeable to me."
"What! What put this idea into your head?" John Wingfield, Sr. snapped.
Often of late he had thought that it was time he got a younger man in
Peter's place. But he did not like the initiative to come from Peter; not
on this particular morning.
"Why, just the notion that I should like to rest. Yes, rest and play a little, and grow roses and salads," said the old secretary, respectfully.
"Roses and salads! What in—where are you going to grow them?"
There was something so serene about Peter that his highly imperious, poised employer found it impertinent, not to say maddening. Peter had a look of the freedom of desert distances in his eyes already. A lieutenant was actually radiating happiness in that neutral-toned sanctum of power, particularly this morning.
"I am going out to Little Rivers, or to some place that Jack finds for me, where I am to have a garden and work—or maybe I better call it potter around—out of doors in January and February, just like it was June."