'Both of us are made for higher things than mere money-making,' he
went on, lighting his calabash pipe and puffing the smoke carefully
above her head from one corner of his mouth, 'and that's what first
attracted us to each other, as I have often mentioned to you. But
now'--his bursting heart breaking through all control--'that he has
sold his interests to a company and retired into private life--er--my
own existence should be easier and less exacting. I shall have less
routine, be more my own master, and also, I trust, find time perhaps
for---'
'Then something _has_ happened!' cried Mrs. Minks, springing to her
feet.
'It has, my dear,' he answered with forced calmness, though his voice
was near the trembling point.
She stood in front of him, waiting. But he himself did not rise, nor
show more feeling than he could help. His poems were full of scenes
like this in which the men--strong, silent fellows--were fine and
quiet. Yet his instinct was to act quite otherwise. One eye certainly
betrayed it.
'It has,' he repeated, full of delicious emotion.
'Oh, but Herbert---!'
'And I am no longer that impersonal factor in City life, mere
secretary to the Board of a company---'
'Oh, Bertie, dear!'
'But private secretary to Mr. Henry Rogers--private and confidential
secretary at---'
'Bert, darling---!'
'At 300 pounds a year, paid quarterly, with expenses extra,
and long, regular holidays,' he concluded with admirable dignity and
self-possession.
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