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.
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