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"Tact, tact, tact," as he was in the habit of saying to himself when walking along the paths of his Putney villa. Crosbie was now secretary, whereas a few months before he had been simply a clerk; but, nevertheless, Mr Butterwell's instinct told him that Crosbie had fallen.
The idea had been presented to Mr Butterwell's mind, and had not been instantly rejected as a scandalously iniquitous idea, as an idea to which no reception could be given for a moment. Crosbie had not been treated as was the needy knife-grinder, and had ground to stand upon while he urged his request.
So, without going to his own desk, or ridding himself of his hat, he went at once to Butterwell's room. When he opened the door, he found Mr Butterwell alone, reading The Times. "Butterwell," said he, beginning to speak before he had even closed the door, "I have come to you in great distress. I wonder whether you can help me; I want you to lend me five hundred pounds?
He was Mr Butterwell's master, and the master also of Mr Optimist, and the major. He knew his business, and could do it, which was more, perhaps, than might fairly be said of any of the other three. Under such circumstances he was sure to get in his hand, and lead again. But elsewhere his star did not recover its ascendancy.
By-the-by, will you come down to Putney to-morrow? Mrs Butterwell will be delighted to see the new secretary. There's nobody in town now, so you can have no ground for refusing." But Mr Crosbie did find some ground for refusing. It would have been impossible for him to have sat and smiled at Mrs Butterwell's table in his present frame of mind.
His sharp ear had told him that all Butterwell's respect and cordiality were gone, at any rate for the time. Butterwell, though holding the higher official rank, had always been accustomed to treat him as though he, the inferior, were to be courted.
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