. . . It's at a place called Casterville Gardens, down by
Gravesend. When first he started watching this house, he was in
rags; but for the last fortnight he has worn khaki, and it improves
his appearance wonderfully. . . . Besides, when a man is in the army,
you have the comfort to know that, at least, he isn't starving."
"Was it so bad as that?" I asked. "Well, and now about Farrell?"
"Ah!" said she, "when you saw him get into that taxi, I had dismissed
him. He was going--or said he was going--straight to Printing House
Square to get that abominable paragraph contradicted. I told him
that he was to return to-night and bring me his assurance that it was
contradicted--either that, or never to enter this house again. . . .
And now, Roddy, as he may be late--as I would only be content with
his seeing the Editor in person--and as editors, I understand, come
down late to their work--suppose you mix yourself a whisky-and-soda:
for here is Furnilove with the glasses. . . . Furnilove! keep the
latch up for an hour or so, and the door on the chain. Mr. Farrell
may be calling late with a particular message.
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