CHAPTER XVI
LONG years unheard yet unforgotten, the voice of Edwin Garson, President Montrose Clark’s hand-perfected private secretary, warbled with a mellifluous intonation over the telephone wire into the surprised ear of The Guardian’s editor and owner.
“Hello! Hello? Hel-lo!... This Mr. Robson?... Office of the Fenchester Public Utilities. Mr. Montrose Clark wishes to see you.”
An unfortunate formula. It recalled the vivid past. One sweetly solemn thought in Jeremy’s mind was forthwith transmuted into one briefly pregnant speech which shocked the private secretary clean off the wire. Jeremy resumed his editorializing. His next interruption, to his incredulous astonishment, took the important form and presence of Mr. Montrose Clark himself. Mahomet had come to the mountain.
At Jeremy’s invitation Mr. Clark disposed his neat and pursy form upon the far edge of a chair impressively, yet with obvious reservations, as one disdaining to concede anything to comfort. Embarrassment might have been conjectured in one less august. His voice was as stiff as his posture as he began:
“I had my secretary telephone you, Mr. Robson.”
“I got your message.”
“And I your reply, which, as transmitted to me, was that I might go to the devil!”
“I think I mentioned the place, not the proprietor.”