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It contained, he informed
me, the unanswered letters of the past fortnight with which he had
found himself unqualified to deal. He grasped the whole bundle of
correspondence, and invited me to follow him to the library and start on
a solid morning's work. I obeyed meekly. He sat down at the big table,
arranged the pile in front of him, took a pencil from the tray, and
began:
"This is from Finch, of the _Universal Review_."
I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Tell him, my boy, that it's against my custom to breakfast at afternoon
tea, and that I hope his wife is well."
At his look of bewilderment I broke into a laugh.
"He wants me to write a dull article for his stupid paper, doesn't he?"
"Yes, on Poor Law Administration."
"I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to do anything these people ask
me. Say 'No, no, no, no,' to everybody."
"In Heaven's name, Simon," he cried, laying down his pencil, "what has
come over you?"
"Old age," said I.
He uttered his usual interjection, and added that I was only
thirty-seven.


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