With thanks renewed and profound, I remain, all things considered,
Remotely yours,
P. SYBARITE.
This he sealed and addressed in a stamped envelope: then thrust his
pen into a raw but none the less antique potato; covered the red and
black inkwells; closed the ledger; locked the petty-cash box and put
it away; painstakingly arranged the blotters, paste-pot, and all the
clerical paraphernalia of his desk; and slewed round on his stool to
blink pensively at Mr. Bross.
That gentleman, having some time since despaired of any response to
his persistent baiting, was now preoccupied with a hand-mirror and
endeavours to erase the smudge of marking-ink from his face by means
of a handkerchief which he now and again moistened in an engagingly
natural and unaffected manner.
"It's no use, George," observed P. Sybarite presently. "If you're in
earnest in these public-spirited endeavours to--how would you put
it?--to remove the soil from your map, take a tip from an old hand and
go to soap and water. I know it's painful, but, believe me, it's the
only way."
George looked up in some surprise.
"Why, _there_ you are, little Bright Eyes!" he exclaimed with spirit.
"I was beginnin' to be afraid this sittin' would pass off without a
visit from Uncle George's pet control. Had little Perceval any message
from the Other Side th'safternoon?"
"One or two," assented P.
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