“Oh, it’s not just the amount of work, Jenkins,” acknowledged Roland; “it’s the being tied by the leg to this horrid old office. As good work as play, if one has to be in it. I have been fit to cut it altogether every hour, since Arthur Channing left: for you know you are no company, Jenkins.”
“Very true, sir.”
“If I could only get Arthur Channing to go with me, I’d be off to-morrow! But he laughs at it. He hasn’t got half pluck. Only fancy, Jenkins! my coming back in a year or two with twenty thousand pounds in my pocket! Wouldn’t I give you a treat, old chap! I’d pay a couple of clerks to do your work here, and carry you off somewhere, in spite of old Galloway, for a six-months’ holiday, where you’d get rid of that precious cough. I would, Jenkins.”
“You are very kind, sir—”
Jenkins was stopped by the “precious cough.” It seemed completely to rack his frame. Roland looked at him with sympathy, and just then steps were heard to enter the passage, and a knock came to the office door.
“Who’s come bothering now?” cried Roland. “Come in!”
Possibly the mandate was not heard, for poor Jenkins was coughing still. “Don’t I tell you to come in?” roared out Roland. “Are you deaf?”
“Open the door. I don’t care to soil my gloves,” came the answer from the other side. And Mr. Roland slid off his stool to obey, rather less lazily than usual, for the voice was that of his mother, the Lady Augusta Yorke.
“A very dutiful son, you are, Mr. Roland!” was the salutation of Lady Augusta. “Forcing me up from dinner before I had finished!”
“I didn’t do anything of the sort,” said Roland.