John Kennedy was an early riser. He had been so all his life. He had made no exception to his custom on this warm summer morning, rising with the first light of dawn.
But he was not happy to greet this day. It would mark the sale of the shipping line that had been in his family for close to a century. Though he hurried through his bath with his usual brisk, sure motions, Mr. Kennedy was a sorrowing man by the time he had walked out on the sundeck of his big stone house on Delaware Avenue.
Mechanically unwrapping his napkin and spreading it on his lap, he gazed without appetite at the breakfast laid out for him. His ears were deaf to the morning song of the birds, and his eyes were blind to the pleasant prospect of the gardens and green lawns that stretched away beneath him.
With a sigh, Mr. Kennedy picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
There was the sound of footsteps and Mr. Kennedy glanced up to see his valet advancing timidly toward him.
“Well, Jenkins?”
“I, I’m sorry to disturb you, sir—but there’s a young gentleman on the telephone.”
“Jenkins,” Mr. Kennedy said gently, struggling to conceal his irritation, “must I repeat my very plain orders that I am not to be disturbed at breakfast?”
The valet’s face turned a deep red. He began to back away apologetically.
“I beg your pardon, sir. I will inform young Mr. Steele that he may call later.”