“Oh, Mr. Petre? Mr. Petre, I presume? I wonder whether you could be so kind—whether you could spare a moment! The manager would really be very much honored....”
Mr. Petre followed him mechanically through a door, down a deeply carpeted passage on the walls of which were three engravings of the Mother Bank in the City of London; one dated 1815, one 1852, and the last 1930; they displayed a progressive decay in the architectural sense of bankers. The charming man pushed open a further door with grace, with decision, with reverence, and Mr. Petre found himself in the presence of a very fine old English gentleman, solid, rubicund, who stood up solemnly at his entry and welcomed him with a sensible apology for taking up his time. His high forehead witnessed to a lifetime of profound thought, his white beard to careful grooming.
“His forehead witnessed to a lifetime of profound thought, his white beard to careful grooming.”
“It is very good of you indeed, Mr. Petre; very good of you, I am sure. Pray take this chair.” And he put a piece of sacred furniture, preserved from the beginnings of the Mother House, in front of the excellent coal fire which burned in an Adams fireplace, preserved from the beginnings of the Mother Bank. It was of marble; a sacrificial frieze supported upon Doric columns. Above it stood a clock, preserved from the beginnings of the Mother Bank, gilt, and supported by a figure of Time with a scythe and an hour-glass, signed “Letellier, de Paris; au Palais Royal,” in thin, careful script; the whole under a glass case.
The two men sat down, and the manager opened genially.
“Well, Mr. Petre, we had no idea you were in London.”
“No,” answered Mr. Petre, after a pause; then quite idiotically. “I mean yes.” He was on the point of adding the day of his arrival, when the terror of inquisition leaped up before him, and he was silent.
“We are greatly honored, Mr. Petre,” said the manager, thrusting the tips of his fingers together and separating them once or twice in habitual fashion. “Ah, by the way....” he rang a bell. “Have you given your signature, Mr. Petre?”