THE WINDING STAIR
“Ihave finished work for the week. I’ll see no one else were he as terse as Tacitus,” cried Mr. Ferguson, the lawyer.
It was six o’clock on a Friday afternoon and a pleasant rustle of the plane trees in the square came through the open window of the office. Mr. Ferguson thought of his cool garden at Goring, with the river running past, and of the fine long day he would have upon the links to-morrow. Gregory, the head clerk, however, held his ground.
“Perhaps if you would look at this card, Mr. Ferguson.”
Mr. Ferguson looked at the size of it.
“By the Lord, no! It’s a woman. She’ll be as prolix as the devil.”
“It’s not a woman,” the stubborn Gregory insisted.
“Then it’s a foreigner, and that’s worse.”
“It’s not even a real foreigner,” said Gregory. He had been a servant of the firm for thirty years, and knew the ins and outs of its affairs as thoroughly as the principals...