“Ah!” said a well-remembered voice, “it is the faithful Richards. How do you do, Richards, and how have the years treated you?”
Carey Image smiled genially, and Richards, as to an old family friend, permitted himself an answering smile.
“I hope I see you well, sir.”
“Tolerably, Richards. My bones creak a little.... Ouf! Was it always the custom to make the rooms so hot?”
Richards, crestfallen, explained. “I will open the window wider.”
“Yes, do. But it was thoughtful of you, Richards, very thoughtful. It seems that everyone looks on me now as a salamander.... So you are here with my godson in his flat. How is that?”
“Well, sir, when Mr. Gilbert came to live in town, my mistress was anxious that I should look after him, so my wife and I came up here.”
“Ah! let me see. Your wife made delicious omelettes. I remember them well. So you came here to give him, as it were, all the comforts of home. Lucky young dog. I am confident of a good dinner now, for I was a little doubtful, Richards, as I dressed. Gilbert is not an epicure, or at least he was not five years ago. He eats—well, he eats, and that’s all there is to it. I have come to the age when I dine. And I remember your wife’s cooking. Will you tell her so?”
The compliment pleased Richards and afterwards the cook, as it was meant to. Image had been born with the knack of saying the graceful thing in the right place, and his memory was wonderful. This trick had made many friends for him.