“I do, sir,” I said, “I have come about my brother Jack.”
“Young Lindley—you are young Lindley’s sister? I am sorry he is ill.”
Mr Chillingfleet’s tone was kind, but not enthusiastic. The young clerk’s services were evidently not greatly missed.
“I have a story to tell you,” I said. And then I began to speak.
My tone was eager, but I saw at once that I did not make a deep impression. Mr Chillingfleet was only languidly attentive. I could read his face, and I was absolutely certain that the thought expressed on it was the earnest hope that my story would be brief. I felt certain that he considered me a worry, that he felt it truly unreasonable of the sisters of sick clerks to come to worry him before noon on Monday morning.
He was a true gentleman, however, and as such could not bring himself to be rude to a woman.
“I can give you ten minutes,” he said, in a courteous tone.
All this time I had been toying with my subject. I now looked in agony at a boy clerk who was perched on a high stool by a desk at the other end of the room.
“If I could see you by yourself,” I said, almost in a whisper.
“Dawson, you can go,” said Mr Chillingfleet.