"I know. The husband of Mrs. Sydney Force," said Flanders, a twinkle in his grey eyes.
"Sit down, Mr. Flanders. I'd ask you to have a cigar, but the nurses say that smoke isn't good for the children. Force always smokes here. I can't tell him not to, you see. He wouldn't come again." In that bit of ingenuousness, Mr. Bingle exposed the family state of mind in respect to their aristocratic neighbours. "Now, this is where we have the reading. Permit me to call your attention to the way we arrange the—er—the auditorium, you might say. That's where I sit—over there. I'm glad you've decided to stay and hear The Christmas Carol. It will do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it. There is a train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here, so fire away. I'm ready to be interviewed."
They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious couch that marked the precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses with a fine assumption of tolerance. He was still trying, after many years, to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected to wake up and find that he had but half an hour in which to eat his breakfast and get across town to the bookkeeper's stool he had occupied the day before. He sometimes felt of his ears reminiscently, for they seemed in some way to clearly connect him with his last waking hours. He never quite got over listening for the alarm clock.
At fifty-three, he was no older in appearance than when he was forty-three. If anything, he seemed younger, for the harassed, care-worn expression had disappeared, leaving him bland, benign of countenance, although the same imperishable wrinkles lined his pinched cheeks. He was just as careless about his sparse hair as in the days of old. It was never by any chance sleek and orderly. The habit of running his fingers through his thatch still clung to him, significant reminder of the perplexities that filled his daily life over the ledgers and day-books. In all other respects, however, he was a re-made man.
His trim little frame was clothed in expensive garments; his patent leather pumps were the handiwork of the most fashionable of bootmakers, and quite uncomfortable; his hosiery was of the finest silk and his watch-chain was of platinum; there were pearl studs in his unpolished shirt front and four shining black buttons on his neat white waistcoat; his clawhammer coat had a velvet collar and fitted him about the shoulders as if it had been constructed for a man who possessed much more of a figure than he; and his trousers were primly pressed. Not the same old Bingle outwardly, you will say, but you are wrong. He was, and always will be, like the leopard.
A certain briskness of manner, inspired by necessity, had come to him in these days of opulence. His position in life made its demands, and one of the most exacting of these denied him the privileges of familiarity. He would have liked nothing better than an hour or two a day of general conversation with Mrs. Bingle and Melissa—say while the latter was tidying up the library—but that was utterly out of the question under the new order of things. He was compelled, by virtue of exaltation, to be very crisp, succinct, positive in his treatment of the most trivial matters; as for conversing amiably with a single servant in his establishment, something told him more plainly than words that it would not be tolerated—not for an instant. He would have given a great deal to be able to just once shout a glad, cheerful, heart-felt "good morning" to Diggs—or to any one of the servants, for that matter—but custom and the surprising dignity of his employees compelled him to utter the greeting in a casual, bored manner, quite as if he did it automatically and always as if he was on the point of clearing his throat. He sorely missed Melissa's spontaneous, even vulgar "Morning, Mist' Bingle," and the rattle of cutlery and chinaware. Melissa had acquired a fine but watchful dignity. She now said "good morning, sir" in the hushed, impersonal voice of the trained servant. She never "joked" with him, as of yore, although he was by way of knowing that she bubbled over with fun in the regions "below stairs."
"I haven't heard The Christmas Carol since I was twelve years old," said Richard Flanders. He had his note paper on his knee. "What I want, Mr. Bingle, is a good Christmas story from you. We shall play it up, of course, and—well, it ought to be good reading. Your own story, sir, from the beginning. All about the Hooper millions and the children that just grew."
"Something stranger than fiction, eh?" mused Mr. Bingle. "But, my dear sir, it's such an old story, this yarn about me. The newspapers have worn it to shreds. Suppose we leave out all reference to the Hooper millions. If the public is as tired of those millions as I am at times, Mr. Flanders, we'll be doing an act of charity if we leave 'em out. You will get your best story, as you call it, by observing what happens here to-night. No one else has ever done it for a newspaper. You are the first, my dear sir. I am a simple man. I don't like to be in the newspapers. The long and tiresome litigation over my poor uncle's estate has kept me more or less in the limelight, as you fellows would say, and there have been times when I willingly would have given up the fight if my lawyers had allowed me to do so. But a lawyer is something you can't get rid of, once you've got him—or he's got you, strictly speaking. My lawyers won't allow ME to quit, and I have every reason to suspect that they won't allow the other side to quit. However, I believe the matter is nearing an end. The United States Supreme Court will pass on the issue just as soon as the lawyers on both sides reach a verdict—that is to say, a verdict acknowledging that it won't pay them to delay the business any longer. The case of Hooper et al vs. Bingle has been going on like the Jarndyce matter for nearly nine years. We've licked them in every court and in three separate hearings, and my lawyers are confident the Supreme Court will sustain the findings of the lower courts. I am a tender-hearted lunatic, Mr. Flanders. I have made an arrangement whereby the son and two daughters of Joseph Hooper are to be paid one million dollars each out of the estate, just as soon as I know definitely that I have beaten them in the court of last resort. I guess that will surprise 'em, eh?"
Flanders' eyes glittered. "Don't forget, Mr. Bingle, that you are speaking to a newspaper man. That last statement of yours would make a sensation, sir."
Mr. Bingle sighed. "I am sure you will not take advantage of me, Mr. Flanders. I have made a similar statement to every newspaper man who has interviewed me, and every one of them has promised not to use it in his paper. So far not one of them has violated his promise. I am sure, sir, that you are no less honourable than the rest of the boys."