“Me, sir?”
“Certainly. I don’t feel up to it. I’m tired. Strain of travel and all that sort of thing. Besides”—he cast a glance of repulsion upon the white heap—“this suggests work. And you know my principles regarding work.”
“Yes, sir.” Connor rubbed his ear painfully. Of course the master was joking. Always a great one for his joke, he was. But—
“There’s a special delivery quite at the top, sir, marked ‘Immediate.’ Don’t you think that perhaps—”
“Oh, all right: all right! If I’ve got to begin I may as well go through.”
Having, like some thousands of other young Americans, departed from his native land and normal routine of life for a long period on important business of a muddy, sanguinary, and profoundly wearisome nature, concerning which he had but the one wish, namely, to forget the whole ugly but necessary affair as swiftly and comprehensively as possible, Mr Jacob Remsen had deemed it wise to cut loose from home considerations as far as feasible; but he now reflected that he had perhaps made a mistake in having no mail forwarded. Well, there was nothing for it but to make up for arrears. He took off his coat and plunged in. The “immediate” special he set aside, to teach it, as he stated to the acquiescent Connor, not to be so infernally assertive and insistent, while he ran through a few scores of communications, mainly devoted to inviting him to dinners and dances which had passed into the shades anywhere from a year to eighteen months previously.
“Now, I’ll attend to you,” said he severely to the special. “Only, don’t brag about your superior importance, next time.”
He opened it and glanced at the heading. “Connor,” said he, “this is from Mr. Bentley.”
“Yes, Mr. Jacob.”
“He says it is necessary for him to see me without delay.”