“Mr. Monson is still here,” he said, lingering. “Shall I send him away, sir, or do you wish to see him?”
“I’ll speak to him myself in a moment,” I answered.
When Sanders was gone, she seated herself and absently played with the buttons of her glove.
“Shall I bring Monson?” I asked. “You know, he’s my—factotum.”
“I do not wish to see him,” she answered.
“You do not like him?” said I.
After a brief hesitation she answered, “No.”
I restrained a strong impulse to ask her why, for instinct told me she had some especial reason that somehow concerned me. I said merely: “Then I shall get rid of him.”
“Not on my account,” she replied, indifferently. “I care nothing about him one way or the other.”
“He goes at the end of his month,” said I.