"Cigars!" he cried.
"He is very set upon one."
Andrew silently opened a cupboard and handed her a box of cigars. Then, still in silence, he seated himself before the fire and frowned at the dancing flames. Behind his back his sisters talked in low voices, but he seemed to have no taste for further conversation.
A few minutes later came the third tap, and this time there was so curious a look in the nurse's face that the junior partner was on his feet in an instant.
"Is it—shall we come up?" he exclaimed.
"Mr. Walkingshaw would like to know what there's to be for dinner," said the nurse.
He looked at his sisters and they at him, and then he rang the bell. Nobody spoke till the butler came up.
"Will you ask the cook what's for dinner? Mr. Walkingshaw wants to know."
Andrew threw into this speech all the concentrated bitterness of his soul. Here was the quintessence of unorthodoxy in the very home of Walkingshaw & Gilliflower! The head of the firm proposed to die not merely drinking and smoking, but, if possible, feasting. They might be in some wretched Bohemian den.
In a few minutes the butler returned with a menu. Andrew read it with a sardonic smile.