“Indeed, sir?”
“Yes, only had one fault—died twenty years too soon. Been a millionaire and a modest man combined. Rara avis, eh? Ha, ha, ha! Tom!”
“Yes, father.”
The answer came from an inner office, and a good-looking youth, wonderfully like Mr Girtley, came out with a pencil across his mouth, a pen behind his ear, a scale in one hand, and a pair of compasses in the other. “This is Antony Grace; you take charge of him and show him about. Take it coolly. Festina lente, you know. I say, Antony Grace, what does rara avis mean?”
“A rare or strange bird, sir.”
“Good lad. And festina lente?”
“Hasten slowly, sir.”
“Good lad. You’re all right with your Latin, then. I wasn’t when I began. Had to learn it after I was twenty. Well, I’m busy, Tom; you understand; he’ll be a bit nervous and strange, so don’t worry him. Let him take in spoonfuls first. He’ll learn to drink big draughts later on.”
“I’m very busy over those syphon plans, father.”
“Ah, the new syphon. Yes, that must be done. Well, I’ll set Browning to do them.”