“I am very sorry,” I stammered, blushing, “but I heard what you were saying. I did not mean to listen. I thought you knew that I was there.”
“It is of no importance,” he said, turning away; “I have no secrets.”
But I detained him.
“Mr. Benson! Tell me, please. You were talking about me, weren’t you? What did you mean about the son of the house not being a servant for ever?”
He hesitated for an instant, and then turned round and came nearer to me.
“It is true, is it not?” he said. “Next year you may be clerk. In time you may be your uncle’s confidential clerk, which I should like to be myself. You may eventually be partner, as I should like to be; and in the long run you may succeed him, as I should like to do. It is a good business, my dear, a sound business, a business of which much, very much, more might be made. You might die rich, very rich. You might be mayor, you might be Member, you might—but what is the use? You will not. You do not see it, though I am telling you. You will not wait for it, though it would come. What is that book you hid when I came in?”
“It is about North American Indians,” said I, dragging it forth. “I am very sorry, but I left off last night at such an exciting bit.”
The Jew was thumbing the pages, with his black ringlets close above them.
“Novels in office-hours!” said he; but he was very good-natured about it, and added, “I’ve one or two books at home, if you’re fond of this kind of reading, and will promise me not to forget your duties.”
“Oh, I promise!” said I.