They have only now found Mr. Fentiman, the lanky and sententious lord of Thompson's Woollens.
Mr. Fentiman had sunk very low—never knew that she was Bence's, never saw her advertisements in agony columns, never guessed year after year that a munificent protector was seeking him. But he has been found at last, in a wretched little hosier's at Portsmouth—ill and weak and pitifully poor.
"Are you quite sure that he is our Fentiman?"
"Quite," said Mears; and he laid the Fentiman dossier on the table.
When Mears had left her she fetched an ink-pot from the mantelpiece, opened a drawer, and extracted pens and note-paper. This morning it was necessary to write a letter in her own hand. Secretaries could not assist her with the task, and time must no longer be nicely measured.
"My dear Mr. Fentiman, I am so glad to hear of you again, and so sorry to learn that your health is not what it should be." Then she invited him to resign his present situation and come to Mallingbridge, where it would doubtless be easy to offer him an opening more suited to his experience and capacity. If he would kindly advise Mr. Mears as to the arrival of his train, Mr. Mears would meet him at the railway station and conduct him to apartments. "Before you plunge into work again, I must beg you to take a complete rest; and as soon as you feel strong enough, I particularly wish you to spend a holiday in Switzerland. I expressed this wish many years ago, one night when you had kindly given me your company at dinner; but although you tacitly allowed me to understand that you would comply with it, circumstances prevented its fulfilment. If you are still of the same mind, it will afford me the utmost pleasure to arrange for your Swiss tour."
Having written so far, she laid down her pen, picked up a telephone receiver, and spoke to the counting-house.
She was writing again, and did not raise her eyes, when a clerk came into the room.
"Put them down."
And the clerk placed the bank-notes on the table, and silently retired.