English fiction -- 20th century; Lancashire (England) -- Fiction
Indeed, this office, with its great fireplace, its Turkey carpet, its
shapely bureau that had been Reuben’s, and its chairs, authentically
old, chosen to be on terms with the historic bureau, its padded leather
sofa and the armchairs before the fire, and above all, the paintings on
the wall, had all the appearance of a writing-room in a wealthy club.
“This is where I work, Rupert,” said Sir Philip, and Rupert wondered if
“work” was quite the justifiable word. He thought the room urbane and
almost drowsily urbane, he thought of work rather as the Staithley
people thought of cleanliness, as a thing that went with mortification
of the flesh, and things looked very easy in this room. But he reserved
judgment. Sir Philip was apt to come home looking very tired. Perhaps
the easiness was deceptive.
A telephone rang, and his father went to the instrument with an apology.
“This is your day, Rupert, but I must steal five minutes of it now.”
He spoke to his broker in Liverpool, and there were little jokes and
affabilities mingled with mysterious references to “points on” and other
technicalities. There was an argument about the “points on,” and Sir
Philip seemed very easily to get the better of it, and then, having
bought a thousand bales of raw cotton futures, he put the telephone down
and said, “That’s the end of business for to-day.” An insider would have
known that something rather important had happened, that the brain of
Sir Philip had been very active indeed in those few minutes when he
lingered over the market-reports at the breakfast-table, that trained
judgment had decided a largish issue and that a brilliant exhibition of
the art of buying had been given on the telephone. Rupert’s impression
was that some enigmatic figures had casually intruded while Sir Philip
passed the time of day with a friend in Liverpool who had rather
superfluously rung him up. At Harrow, veneration of the business man was
at a discount, and he believed Harrow was right. To write Greek verse
was a stiffer job than to be a cotton-lord--on the evidence so far
before the court.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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