“And you’ll see Mr. Manners to-morrow morning,” she said, after a short pause.
“Appointment for 10.30,” said Tom. “I’ll breakfast at the Euston Hotel and take the tube to his office. Bye-bye, old girl.”
But the “bye-bye,” like the kiss, was premature. The train did not start.
“If I get Manners’ agency,” said Tom, “we’ll be on the pig’s back. You’ll be driving about in a big car with a fur coat on you in the inside of six months.”
“Be as fascinating as you can, Tom,” she said.
“He’d hardly have asked me to go all the way to London,” said Tom, “if he wasn’t going to give me the agency.”
They had reasoned all that out half-a-dozen times since the letter arrived which summoned Tom to an interview in Mr. Manners’ office. There was no doubt that the agency, which meant the sole right of selling the Manners’ machines in Ireland, would be exceedingly profitable. And Tom O’Donovan believed that he had secured it.
He glanced at the watch on his wrist.
“I wonder what the deuce we’re waiting for,” he said.
But passengers on Irish railways now-a-days are all accustomed to trains which do not start, and have learned the lesson of patience. Tom waited, without any sign of irritation, Mrs. O’Donovan chatted pleasantly to him. The train had reached the station in good time. It was due in Dublin two hours before the mail boat left Kingstown. There was no need to feel worried.