Perhaps now an old friend is announced. It is Miss Woolfrey from China and Glass. May she come in? Or shall she call again? No, ask Miss Woolfrey to come in.
And then time is flagrantly wasted. Miss Woolfrey has nothing to say, can put forward no valid reason for bothering the commander-in-chief. Miss Woolfrey giggles foolishly, gossips inanely, meanders with a stream of senseless twaddle; but she is gratified by smiles and nods and handshakings.
"Well, now, really—my dear Miss Woolfrey—you cheer me with your excellent account of this little storm in a tea-cup.... Yes, I'll remember all you say.... How kind of you to ask! Yes, my daughter is very well."
And Miss Woolfrey goes away happy. She is a licensed offender—has been accorded unlimited privilege to waste time. Incompetent as ever, and totally unable to adapt herself to modern conditions, she enjoys a splendid sinecure in the new China and Glass. She has clever people over her to keep her straight, and will never be deprived of her salary until she accepts a pension in exchange.
Sooner or later during the forenoon, Mrs. Marsden-Thompson rings her bell and asks for Mr. Mears.
"Is Mr. Mears in his room?"
"I believe so, madam."
"Then give Mr. Mears my compliments, and say I shall be glad to see him if it is convenient to him—only if convenient, not if he is occupied."
It was always convenient to Mr. Mears. His convenience is her convenience. Almost immediately the door opens, and he appears—and very grand he looks, bowing on the threshold; massive and strong again; no shaky dotard, but a vigorous elderly man, who might be mistaken for a partner in a bank, a president of a chamber of commerce, a member of the Privy Council, or anybody eminently prosperous and respectable.
"Good morning, Mr. Mears. Please be seated."