“I’m sorry, sir.”
“ ’Twouldn’t have been good, anyhow. I’m in for a bad day. I can feel it in my bones.”
Parsons laid out a tweed suit and a cheerful necktie, and placed a silk dressing-gown over the bedrail.
“Ready for your bath, sir?”
“Yes, turn it on.”
Parsons retired and returned a few moments later with the announcement:
“A gentleman has called to see you, sir. I told him you wasn’t up, but he asked permission to wait.”
“Who is he?”
“Mr. Lane Quiltan, sir.”
“Quiltan, oh, yes—yes, wrote that play at the—. What’s he after?”