"Not," I answered slowly, "of the job. But I'm tired—very tired."
He diagnosed me with a swift look.
"South of France any good to you? Or Norway? Or anywhere else? I suppose young what's-his-name—Willett—could carry on?"
"Oh, of course he's been running the whole show for weeks," I admitted. Then, "Look here, Glenfield; I'd better resign."
"Don't be an ass," he replied promptly. "If I'd meant you to resign do you suppose I should have come here to-night? I sack men in my office, not while I'm drinking their liqueurs. Now tell me what's wrong. You haven't been yourself for some time."
I frowned, hardly knowing what to reply.
"This is most awfully good of you, but I hardly think it's a case for a holiday," I said at last with some embarrassment.
"Well, tell me about it. Is it working double tides, or just post-war slump? We've all got that more or less."
I mused and shook my head. "I wish you'd let me resign," I said again.