And then she discusses with him all those matters of which she can speak to no one else. Mears is never a time-waster; he, too, makes few words suffice; long practice has given him quickness in catching her thought.
"Mr. Mears, what are we to do about Mr. Greig? Frankly, he is getting past his work."
"I admit it," says Mears.
"It will be better for all parties if he retires."
"He won't like the idea."
Mr. Greig, the obese chieftain of Cretonnes in the days of old Thompson's, is threatened with no real peril. If he ceases working to-morrow, he will continue to receive his working wage till death; but the difficulty is to remove him from the sphere of action without a wound to his feelings.
"Will you talk to him—introduce the idea to him gradually, bring him to it little by little, so that if possible he may come to think that it is his own idea, and that he himself wants to retire?"
And Mears promises that he will deal thus diplomatically with the faithful old servant.
They are nearly all here—the old servants; from chieftains like Greig and Ridgway to lieutenants like Davies the night watchman, each has found his snug billet. All who shivered with her in the cold are welcome to warmth and sunshine. She has forgotten no one: she could not forget old friends.
Sometimes, of course, her bounteous intentions have been rendered nugatory by fate. A few friends are gone beyond the reach of help; others it has been impossible to discover. Even now Mears has occasionally to tell her of someone raked out of the past. For instance, this morning he brings with him a small bundle of papers, and speaks to her of such an one.