“Of course I did. He was senior porter when I was an undergraduate. He must be about a hundred and ten.”
“No, sir, only seventy-five,” smiled the young man.
“Who’s master now?”
“Dr. Barrett, sir.”
“Is he up?”
“Not for the moment, sir.”
“What about Mr. Westgrove?”
“Westgrove? Oh yes, sir. He died a long time ago. When I was a boy, sir.”
“Well, who is there in residence?”
The younger Westmacott rattled off a string of unfamiliar names.