"Send him in."
The man gave his head a tilt forward which seemed to close his eyes, turned pivotally about, and walked out of the room in his most luxurious manner. Rufus never imitated his employer, but he often regretted that his employer did not imitate him.
Mr. Anthony's face resumed its look of prosperous annoyance. The door opened, and a small, roughly dressed man came toward the desk.
"Well, here I am at last," he said in a tone of gentle apology; "I suppose you think it's about time."
The annoyance faded out of Mr. Anthony's face, and left it blank. The visitor put out a work-callous hand.
"I guess you don't remember me; my name's Burson. I was up once before, but you were busy. I hope you're well; you look hearty."
Mr. Anthony shook the proffered hand, and then shrank back, with the distrust of geniality which is one of the cruel hardships of wealth.
"I am well, thank you. What can I do for you, Mr. Burson?"
The little man sat down and wiped the back of his neck with his handkerchief. He was bearded almost to the eyes, and his bushy brows stood out in a thatch. As he bent his gaze upon Mr. Anthony it was like some gentle creature peering out of a brushy covert.
"I guess the question's what I can do for you, Mr. Anthony," he said, smiling wistfully on the millionaire; "I hain't done much this far, sure."