With Mr. Moody if you like, sir. I was to telephone.
Not tonight, Harold replied in haste, acting by instinct. Telephone Mr. Moody that I will call on him tomorrow afternoon.
Very good, sir. Will you dine at home, sir?
Rapidly Harold was made aware of how much his own master he had become. It gave him size.
Is there anything to eat in the house?
Certainly, sir. What there is not I can get. The markets are open. May I suggest a chop, sir?
A chop? Yes, and . . .
And green peas, sir; a salad, a sweet, and coffee, sir.
I think that will be all right, Harold replied, awkwardly fingering the Police Gazette.
Thank you, sir, and now will you have your bath?
Drains led the way into the white-tiled bathroom and helped Harold divest himself of his clothing. Water already poured from the faucets and the tub was nearly full. Plunged therein, Harold recalled the events of the day with some confusion, a vague alarm, and yet not altogether without pleasure. After all, his father had been kind: he had permitted him, even requested him, to live as he pleased for a year, and he had already met Alice. He wondered when he would see her again. . . . But this Paul Moody! Evidently a strange bird.
Ugh! Harold was blushing again. Drains was scrubbing his back.
