A newspaper lay at my plate; it was the morning’s issue of a Chicago daily. I was, then, not wholly out of the world, I reflected, scanning the head-lines.
“Your grandfather rarely examined the paper. Mr. Glenarm was more particularly interested in the old times. He wasn’t what you might call up to date,—if you will pardon the expression, sir.”
“You are quite right about that, Bates. He was a medievalist in his sympathies.”
“Thank you for that word, sir; I’ve frequently heard him apply it to himself. The plain omelette was a great favorite with your grandfather. I hope it is to your liking, sir.”
“It’s excellent, Bates. And your coffee is beyond praise.”
“Thank you, Mr. Glenarm. One does what one can, sir.”
He had placed me so that I faced the windows, an attention to my comfort and safety which I appreciated. The broken pane told the tale of the shot that had so narrowly missed me the night before.
“I’ll repair that to-day, sir,” Bates remarked, seeing my eyes upon the window.
“You know that I’m to spend a year on this place; I assume that you understand the circumstances,” I said, feeling it wise that we should understand each other.
“Quite so, Mr. Glenarm.”