ancient man climbing up endless flights of stairs. Who was he?
“I shan’t dress to-night,” he muttered.
“What do you say, father?”
“Eh, what, what?” Old Mr. Neave woke with a start and stared across at them. “I shan’t dress to-night,” he repeated.
“But, father, we’ve got Lucile coming, and Henry Davenport, and Mrs. Teddie Walker.”
“It will look so very out of the picture.”
“Don’t you feel well, dear?”
“You needn’t make any effort. What is Charles for?”
“But if you’re really not up to it,” Charlotte wavered.
“Very well! Very well!” Old Mr. Neave got up and went to join that little old climbing fellow just as far as his dressing-room. . . .
There young Charles was waiting for him. Carefully, as though everything depended on it, he was tucking a towel round the hot-water can. Young Charles had been a favourite of his ever since as a little red-faced boy he had come into the house to look after the fires. Old Mr. Neave lowered himself into the cane lounge by the window, stretched out his legs, and made his little evening joke, “Dress him up, Charles!” And Charles, breathing intensely and frowning, bent forward to take the pin out of his tie.
H’m, h’m! Well, well! It was pleasant
