"Look here, Whaley," said his master smartly. "What's the matter? Are you ill? Are you mad? Have you"—in a softer voice—"have you perhaps suffered some sudden bereavement?"
"Only the bereavement of a loyal heart deceived, bewildered," moaned George Whaley, quoting textually from The Waifs of the Whirlwind. He linked his hands before his ample waistcoat and hung his saddened head.
The Home Secretary's Butler taking the
liberty to observe: "Thou art
the man."
"Upon my word!" cried Humphrey de Bohun, moved to unexpected energy by an intolerable boredom, "this kind of thing's got to stop. Speak out, man, and don't make a fool of yourself!" He pulled out his watch. "I've not got all the time there is! Hurry up, now! Surely you can speak plainly!"
"I can," said George Whaley, in tones of gloom, and moved by a mighty resolution. He was standing upright now; he fixed his employer with a steady glance, and each hand was half clenched at his side. "The emerald, sir!"
And he waited for his effect.
"Oh, damn the emerald!" shouted Humphrey de Bohun. "If you think this is the time, after all these two days ..."
"It is the time," said George Whaley firmly, with a reminiscence of the worthy mother who had brought him up in the Countess of Huntingdon's connection and under all the discipline of the Jacobean Scriptures. "Yea, now is the acceptable time."