The Masquerader | Page 6

to some fish, but sent away his plate untouched; then, having drunk two cups of tea, he pushed back his chair, lighted a fresh cigarette, and shook out the morning's newspaper.
Twice he shook it out and twice turned it, but the reluctance to fix his mind upon it made him dally.
The effect of the morphia tabloids was still apparent in the greater steadiness of his hand and eye, the regained quiet of his susceptibilities, but the respite was temporary and lethargic. The early days--the days of six years ago, when these tabloids meant an even sweep of thought, lucidity of brain, a balance of judgment in thought and effort--were days of the past. As he had said of Lexington and his vice, the slave had become master.
As he folded the paper in a last attempt at interest, the door opened and his secretary came a step or two into the room.
"Good-morning, sir!" he said. "Forgive me for being so untimely."
He was a fresh-mannered, bright-eyed boy of twenty-three. His breezy alertness, his deference, as to a man who had attained what he aspired to, amused and depressed Chilcote by turns.
"Good-morning, Blessington. What is it now?" He sighed through habit, and, putting up his hand, warded off a ray of sun that had forced itself through the misty atmosphere as if by mistake.
The boy smiled. "It's that business of the Wark timber contract, sir," he said. "You promised you'd look into it to-day; you know you've shelved it for a week already, and Craig, Burnage are rather clamoring for an answer." He moved forward and laid the papers he was carrying on the table beside Chilcote. "I'm sorry to be such a nuisance," he added. "I hope your nerves aren't worrying you to-day?"
Chilcote was toying with the papers. At the word nerves he glanced up suspiciously. But Blessington's ingenuous face satisfied him.
"No," he said. "I settled my nerves last night with--with a bromide. I knew that fog would upset me unless I took precautions."
"I'm glad of that, sir--though I'd avoid bromides. Bad habit to set up. But this Wark business--I'd like to get it under way, if you have no objection."
Chilcote passed his fingers over the papers. "Were you out in that fog last night, Blessington?"
"No, sir. I supped with some people at the Savoy, and we just missed it. It was very partial, I believe."
"So I believe."
Blessington put his hand to his neat tie and pulled it. He was extremely polite, but he had an inordinate sense of duty.
"Forgive me, sir," he said, "but about that contract--I know I'm a frightful bore."
"Oh, the contract!" Chilcote looked about him absently. "By-the-way, did you see anything of my wife yesterday? What did she do last night?"
"Mrs. Chilcote gave me tea yesterday afternoon. She told me she was dining at Lady Sabinet's, and looking in at one or two places later." He eyed his papers in Chilcote's listless hand.
Chilcote smiled satirically. "Eve is very true to society," he said. "I couldn't dine at the Sabinets' if it was to make me premier. They have a butler who is an institution--a sort of heirloom in the family. He is fat, and breathes audibly. Last time I lunched there he haunted me for a whole night."
Blessington laughed gayly. "Mrs. Chilcote doesn't see ghosts, sir," he said; "but if I may suggest--"
Chilcote tapped his fingers on the table.
"No. Eve doesn't see ghosts. We rather miss sympathy there."
Blessington governed his impatience. He stood still for some seconds, then glanced down at his pointed boot.
"If you will be lenient to my persistency, sir, I would like to remind you--"
Chilcote lifted his head with a flash of irritability.
"Confound it, Blessington!" he exclaimed. "Am I never to be left in peace? Am I never to sit down to a meal without having work thrust upon me? Work--work--perpetually work? I have heard no other word in the last six years. I declare there are times"--he rose suddenly from his seat and turned to the window--"there are times when I feel that for sixpence I'd chuck it all--the whole beastly round--"
Startled by his vehemence, Blessington wheeled towards him.
"Not your political career, sir?"
There was a moment in which Chilcote hesitated, a moment in which the desire that had filled his mind for months rose to his lips and hung there; then the question, the incredulity in Blessington's face, chilled it and it fell back into silence.
"I--I didn't say that," he murmured. "You young men jump to conclusions, Blessington."
"Forgive me, sir. I never meant to imply retirement. Why, Rickshaw, Vale, Cressham, and the whole Wark crowd would be about your ears like flies if such a thing were even breathed --now more than ever, since these Persian rumors. By-the-way, is there anything real in this border business? The 'St. George's' came out rather strong last