Mr Burden looked at this form a moment, and then lifting his head:
“Give him my name,” he said.
“What is yer name.”
“Burden ... Mr Burden. Tell Mr Abbott Mr Burden is here, and wishes most particularly to see him.”
The young clerk sauntered off with a careless ease, and Mr Burden stood waiting at the counter. His face was very pale, his manner unsteady. Beyond, in little pens of glass, ill-paid men, working at books, peeped furtively; some smiled, others looked round to catch a neighbour’s eye. Mr Burden was oblivious of it all.
The young clerk returned and said, as a servant in livery speaks to a tradesman in none:
“Mr Abbott can’t see you.”
Patches of colour lit up in Mr Burden’s face; but, before he spoke or moved, a little dry, grey man who had served his master faithfully for twenty years, and to whom Mr Burden was as familiar as the City streets, had seen what was passing and had come forward. He pushed aside the very foolish youth, and said in a low, respectful voice:
“You had much better wait a little, Mr Burden, sir; you had indeed.”
Mr Burden shook his head slowly. He took up an office pen and wrote a few lines upon a memorandum sheet. He folded it and put Mr Abbott’s name outside.... “Take him that,” he said, “I must see him.”