“No; I can’t do that. I’ve got to stay here and be looked after by old Connor, or forever wound his feelings. That’s the worst of family responsibilities.”
The footsteps mounted the basement stairs unevenly and with a suggestion of a stagger in them.
“What! Connor taken to drink?” thought Jacob with sinful amusement. “Wonder where he found it. There is hope, still!”
The old servitor puffed into sight half carrying, half dragging a huge clothes-basket. “What’s that?” demanded Jacob’:
“Your mail, sir.”
“Is that all?” asked the other, with a sardonicism which was lost upon Connor’s matter-of-fact mind.
“No, sir. There’s another half-basket downstairs.”
“Good Lord! What’ll do with it?”
“If I may suggest, sir, it ought to be read.”
“Sound idea! You read it, Connor.”