“It’s a bit funny, sir, to ordinary people, but in Society nothing is uncommon,” replied Johnson. “Shall I go on with my notes?”
“Please do,” said Smeaton cordially. Johnson was of the younger generation, but he was shaping well. Perhaps it is possible that youngsters have a wider outlook than their elders.
Mr Johnson read on, in a deferential voice:
“His lordship is an invalid—suffers from some affection of the joints, an aggravated form of rheumatism, walks with a stick. Has been absent from Park Lane for a little time. Nobody knows where he is. His confidential man of business, steward or secretary or something, runs the house in his absence.”
“And her ladyship?” queried Smeaton eagerly.
“I’m coming to that, sir. Her ladyship has been away for some time; travelling abroad they think. My informant gave me the date of her departure. Here it is, sir.”
Smeaton looked at the little pencilled note. He rose, and shook his subordinate cordially by the hand, saying:
“Really you’ve done more than well. You forget nothing, I see. I shall watch your career with great interest. If I can push you I will. You may rely on that.”
Johnson bowed low at the great man’s praise. “A word here from you, Mr Smeaton, and I’m made in the Service.”
His voice faltered skilfully here, and he withdrew, leaving Smeaton to his reflections.