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Mr. Brownbee rose, and said in a suave voice: "Mr. Heythorp, we here represent about L14,000. When we had the pleasure of meeting you last July, you will recollect that you held out a prospect of some more satisfactory arrangement by Christmas. We are now in January, and I am bound to say we none of us get younger."
Brownbee added almost nervously: "Are we to understand that twelve hundred a year is your your last word?" Old Heythorp nodded. "Come again this day month, and I'll see what I can do for you;" and he shut his eyes. Round Mr. Brownbee six of the gentlemen gathered, speaking in low voices; Mr. Ventnor nursed a leg and glowered at old Heythorp, who sat with his eyes closed. Mr.
This plumping out of what was at the back of their minds produced in Mr. Brownbee and his colleagues a sort of chemical disturbance. They coughed, moved their feet, and turned away their eyes, till the one who had not risen, a solicitor named Ventnor, said bluffly: "Well, put it that way if you like." Old Heythorp's little deep eyes twinkled.
"My grandfather lived to be a hundred; my father ninety-six both of them rips. I'm only eighty, gentlemen; blameless life compared with theirs." "Indeed," Mr. Brownbee said, "we hope you have many years of this life before you." "More of this than of another." And a silence fell, till old Heythorp added: "You're getting a thousand a year out of my fees.
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