“Well, then, Martin, don’t tell him. I’ll slip out when he’s away and, Martin, don’t tell any one: not for a day or two. I’ll tell you when you may, quite soon.”
“Yes, sir. Very good. Will you have your breakfast now, sir,” he said, “or will you wait till Mr. Thompson comes?”
“Is Thompson coming?” asked Mr. Petre, gratefully.
“Yes, sir,” said Martin. “He told me he would be here at ten, and it’s striking now.”
“Then I will wait for Mr. Thompson,” said Mr. Blagden—who was also Mr. Petre when the thought of the Bank came back to him and brought up that smile again—“I will wait for Mr. Thompson, and we will breakfast together, Martin. What is there for breakfast?” he added sharply.
“I got kippers,” said Martin, in a voice which years had rendered part of his master’s life. “I had to use my judgment, sir, and you were always fond of kippers.”
“I was,” said Mr. Blagden, in deeper and more religious tones than he had yet used; and he added, “I was and am again. Indeed, I was fond of them in between, and I ought to have remembered why. But I didn’t, Martin, I didn’t.”
“No, sir,” said that excellent man, amenable to the absurdities of his lord.
“I should have known it all the time, Martin,” said Mr. Blagden. “It’s curious I didn’t know anything all the time.”
“Yes, sir,” said Martin.