Mr. Clutterbuck mournfully consented. He felt that impulse which the bereaved know so well, and which leads the widower to the freshly covered grave.
Upon Tuesday Mr. Bailey obtained for him the magnificent spectacle of the opening of Parliament. Mr. Clutterbuck heard the King's Speech, saw the peers in their robes, aye, and the peeresses too, and was glad to remember that there was one institution at least of a greater splendour than that to which he might now never attain.
As they went out, Mr. Bailey said, à propos of nothing: "Sack Charlie."
"Mr. Fitzgerald.... Why on earth?" said Mr. Clutterbuck with an open mouth.
"Well, don't if you don't like: I won't interfere. Lunch to-morrow?"
"Yes," said Mr. Clutterbuck, "certainly."
"Right," said Mr. Bailey, "and we'll get under the gallery."
In the train Mr. Bailey's advice echoed, and echoed ill in the merchant's ears, but he had not been in the house ten minutes when he heard Charlie Fitzgerald's happy voice calling him, and begging for congratulations.
Any vague suspicions that might have passed through his mind were instantly dispelled, as he told the news—but he told it, protesting his willingness to continue his services if Mr. Clutterbuck desired to retain them. If he were free, however, Charlie had the option of a post in India.
His face was glorious with anticipation.