"Good morning, Sturgis," he said affably, as the butler appeared. "You might give me some more coffee, will you?"
The butler of Rudge Hall was a little man with snowy hair who had been placidly withering in Mr. Carmody's service for the last twenty years. John had known him ever since he could remember, and he had always been just the same—frail and venerable and kindly and dried-up. He looked exactly like the Good Old Man in a touring melodrama company.
"Why, Mr. John! I thought you were in London."
"I got back late last night. And very glad," said John heartily, "to be back. How's the rheumatism, Sturgis?"
"Rather troublesome, Mr. John."
John was horrified. Could these things be on such a day as this?
"You don't say so?"
"Yes, Mr. John. I was awake the greater portion of the night."
"You must rub yourself with something and then go and lie down and have a good rest. Where do you feel it mostly?"
"In the limbs, Mr. John. It comes on in sharp twinges."