Always sincerely and gratefully yours,
FRANCINE DE CORANTIN.
As Bobby finished the letter he looked up and met the eyes of the Assistant Commissioner who rose from his chair.
“I need not detain you, Mr. Froelich; it only remains for me to apologize for any trouble I may have given you. I must ask you to be kind enough to lend me this letter, which, however, I shall send on to you in a few days.”
Bobby returned to his flat, relieved but chastened. It was not long before he received the commission he coveted. The same Gazette contained two announcements: one that a commission as lieutenant had been granted to Mr. J. Froelich, the other that his Majesty had no further use for the services of Mr. Alistair Ramsey.
VI. A WAR VICTIM
Gilbert Baxendale is at fifty what people call “a nice-looking man.” He hardly seems any older than he did ten years ago, except that he is rather stouter below the belt, and that when he takes off his hat one notices that he is getting a little bald. His skin is pink and unwrinkled, and his hair and moustache are so light that one does not notice whether they are turning grey or not, and he looks as spruce as ever. Baxendale always has been particular about his appearance, and he is never so pleased as when you ask him the name of his tailor. But his reply in that case is deprecating, implying that he doesn’t think very much of him, do you? which is intended to draw further reassurance and compliment. On the other hand, if, inspired by the lustre of their beautiful polish, you should inquire where he gets his boots, his expression changes. Although boots are about as near a hobby as he has ever got, he is distressed about the shape of his feet, and says that his corns give him a lot of trouble. But he likes to talk about boots, and a recurring subject of conversation with him is the difficulty of finding a man who really understands doing them properly. He knows a great deal about blacking and brushes, and is no mean authority on the art of boning or polishing or varnishing refractory footgear of all kinds. To look at him one would think Baxendale has never had a day’s illness in his life, but as a matter of fact he has never been well since any one can remember. He has always suffered from what one may call ailments, and when one saw him at the club or in Bond Street he would tell you he was not quite the thing—he was run down or had lumbago or a bit of a chill on the liver.
Baxendale is very particular about cooking. He used to complain a good deal about the food at the club, but after his marriage he said it had improved, which no one could understand, as the kitchen staff has not been changed for twenty years. Freddy Catchpole said that once when he dined with them Mrs. Baxendale asked him about the club cook, because Gilbert was very dissatisfied with theirs. Servants worried Baxendale a great deal after he got married. He said they almost made him long for his bachelor days, when he did not know what domestic cares were.