"Good evening, Miss Veale," he said courteously as he entered the office.
"Oh, you mustn't call her Miss Veale. She's Norah—one of us, you know." And as he spoke, Dale laid his hand on the back of Norah's neck to prevent her from rising. "She's our multum in parvo—making herself so useful to the wife and me that we can't think what we should ever do without her. Bide where you are a moment, Norah."
Dale established his visitor on a chair that faced the rapidly waning light, and addressed him again with increased deference.
"If you can spare a few minutes, there's a thing I'd like to speak to you about, Mr. Bates."
"I can spare all the minutes between now and morning," said Mr. Bates cordially, "if I can be of the least service to you, William."
As much now as in the beginning of the enterprise Bates held himself at the younger man's disposal, indeed liked nothing better than to give information and counsel whenever his prosperous successor was of a mind to accept either.
"I won't keep you as long as that," said Dale, smiling; "but will you give us the pleasure of your company at supper?"
"You're very kind, William, but I don't think I can."
"Do, Mr. Bates. The wife will be as pleased as me—as I."
The old fellow looked up at Dale hesitatingly; and Dale, looking down at his clean-shaven cheeks, bushy white eyebrows, and the long wisps of white hair brushed across his bald head, felt a great reverence. He would not look at the threadbare shabbiness of the gray cloth suit, or at the queer tints given by time and weather to the black felt hat that was being balanced on two shrunken knees.