So he sat before his house-book, with his steel pen in his hand, and making crosses here and notes of interrogation there. "Mrs. M'Catchley's maid," said the Colonel to himself, "must be put upon rations. The tea that she drinks! Good Heavens!—tea again!"
There was a modest ring at the outer door. "Too early for a visitor!" thought the Colonel. "Perhaps it is the Water-rates."
The neat man-servant—never seen, beyond the offices, save in grande tenue, plushed and powdered—entered, and bowed.
"A gentleman, sir, wishes to see you."
"A gentleman," repeated the Colonel, glancing toward the clock. "Are you sure it is a gentleman?"
The man hesitated. "Why, sir, I ben't exactly sure; but he speaks like a gentleman. He do say he comes from London to see you, sir."
A long and interesting correspondence was then being held between the Colonel and one of his wife's trustees, touching the investment of Mrs. Pompley's fortune. It might be the trustee—nay, it must be. The trustee had talked of running down to see him.
"Let him come in," said the Colonel; "and when I ring—sandwiches and sherry."
"Beef, sir?"
"Ham."