Marsten laughed.
“I don’t mind walking,” he said.
The old man looked at him for a few minutes.
“You don’t mean to tell me you have walked all the way from London this morning!”
“It’s only twelve or thirteen miles.”
“Dear dear, dear dear! I see, I see. Yes, Sartwell’s right. I’m not a very brilliant man, although I think one’s manager should not say so before one’s partner. Come with me to the house for a moment.”
“I think I should be off now.”
“No no, come with me. I won’t keep you long; I won’t take a refusal. I’m going to put my foot down, as I said. I have had too little self-assertion in the past. Come along.”
The courageous man led the way towards his dwelling, keeping the trees between himself and the house as much as possible and as long as he could. He shuffled hurriedly across the open space, and went gingerly up the steps at the back of the building, letting himself into a wide hall, and then noiselessly entered a square room that looked out upon the broad lawn and plantation to the rear. The room was lined with books; a solid oak table stood in the centre, flanked by comfortable armchairs. Mr. Hope rang the bell, and held the door slightly ajar.
“Is there any cold meat down-stairs, Susy?” he whispered to the unseen person through the opening.