Moggridge looked a trifle uncomfortable and was discreetly silent. Mr Beveridge smiled at his own perspicacity, and then began in the most friendly tone, “Well, I feel flattered that so stout a man has been told off to take care of me. What an arm you’ve got, man.”
“Pretty fair, sir,” said Moggridge, complacently.
“And I am thankful, too,” continued Mr Beveridge, “that you’re a man of some sense. There are a lot of fools in the world, Moggridge, and I’m somewhat of an epicure in the matter of heads.”
“Mine ’as been considered pretty sharp,” Moggridge admitted, with a gratified relaxation of his wooden countenance.
“Have a cigar?” his patient asked, taking out his case.
“Thank you, sir, I don’t mind if I do.”
“You will find it a capital smoke. I don’t throw them away on every one.”
Moggridge, completely thawed, lit his cigar and slackened his pace, for such frank appreciation of his merits was rare in a critical world.
“You can perhaps believe, Moggridge,” said Mr Beveridge, reflectively, “that one doesn’t often have the chance of talking confidentially to a man of sense in Clankwood.”
“No, sir, I should himagine not.”