Pretty bad!
Lord Moggeridge early in life had deliberately acquired a quite exceptional power of mental self-control. He took his perturbed mind now and threw it forcibly into the consideration of a case upon which he had reserved judgment. He was to catch the 3.35 at Paddington, and at two he was smoking a cigar after a temperate lunch and reading over the notes of this judgment. It was then that the telephone bell became audible, and Candler came in to inform him that Lord Chickney was anxious to see him at once upon a matter of some slight importance.
“Slight importance?” asked Lord Moggeridge.
“Some slight importance, my lord.”
“Some? Slight?”
“’Is Lordship, my lord, mumbles rather now ’is back teeth ’ave gone,” said Candler, “but so I understand ’im.”
“These apologetic assertive phrases annoy me, Candler,” said Lord Moggeridge over his shoulder. “You see,” he turned round and spoke very clearly, “either the matter is of importance or it is not of importance. A thing must either be or not be. I wish you would manage—when you get messages on the telephone—.... But I suppose that is asking too much.... Will you explain to him, Candler, when we start, and—ask him, Candler—ask him what sort of matter it is.”
Candler returned after some parleying.
“So far as I can make ’is Lordship out, my lord, ’e says ’e wants to set you right about something, my lord. He says something about a little misapprehension.”
“These diminutives, Candler, kill sense. Does he say what sort—what sort—of little misapprehension?”