“Your foreman?” said the Major, as they walked to the office.
“Yes; a very useful man. Not polished or refined.”
“Well, no; I—But there; I’m prejudiced.”
“Think so?” said Clive, with a grave smile. “He does not impress you favourably?”
“To be frank, no, he does not. I had a great deal to do with men in the army, and as a rule I was pretty good at the study of physiognomy.”
“Indeed!” said Clive, smiling.
“Yes, sir. I should say that man was sensual, of a violent temper, and not to be trusted.”
“It may be you are about right,” said Clive, “but the man is a good worker, has special knowledge, and is very useful. He wants driving with the curb, and with a strong hand at the rein. Now, then, a glass of sherry and a biscuit. But you would like to wash your hands.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Major, as he discussed his biscuit and sherry, “it is quite absurd for me, an old waif cast aside by the stream of busy life, to try and teach a keen business man like you. Of course, you know how to manage these people, and yes, yes, there was a time when mine was a smart regiment, Mr Reed, and—Ah! that’s past. I am out of the world now. But that really is a very fine glass of sherry, Mr Reed. Old East India brown. One does not often taste such wine now-a-days.”
“I am glad you like it,” said Clive, filling a wine-glass and pouring it into a tumbler, and then brimming it with cold water from a carafe. “It is some of my late father’s wine. I am glad to see it appreciated.”