Two days later he received a letter from Mr. Marston offering him a post of a hundred and fifty pounds a year, with all expenses found.
“You will understand, of course,” the letter ran, “that at present you are on probation. Our work is personal and requires special gifts. These gifts, however, I believe you to possess. For both our sakes I hope that you will make a success of this. Gerald is sailing for Brussels at the end of October, and I expect that you will be able to arrange to accompany him. He will tell you what you will need to take out with you. We usually make our representatives an allowance of fifteen pounds for personal expenses, but I daresay that we could in your case, if it is necessary, increase this sum.”
Mr. Whately, as usual in the morning, was in a state of nervous excitement. He was always a considerable trial to his family at breakfast. And as often as possible Roland delayed his own appearance till he had heard the slam of the front door. It is not easy to enjoy a meal when someone is bouncing from table to sideboard, reading extracts from the morning paper, opening letters, running up and down stairs, forgetting things in the hall. Mr. Whately had never been able to face the first hour of the morning with dignity and composure. When Roland handed him Mr. Marston’s letter he received it with the impatience of a busy man, who objects to being worried by an absurd trifle.
“A letter from Mr. Marston, father, that I thought you might like to read.”
“Oh, yes, of course; well, wait a minute,” and he projected himself out of the door and up the stairs. He returned to the table within a minute, panting and flustered.
“Yes; now what’s the time? Twenty-five past eight. I’ve got seven minutes. Where’s this letter of yours, Roland? Let me see.”
He picked up the letter and began to read it as he helped himself to another rasher of bacon. His agitation increased as he read.
“But I don’t understand,” he said impatiently. “What’s all this about Mr. Marston offering you a post in his business?”
“What’s that, dear?” said Mrs. Whately quickly. “Isn’t Roland going into the bank after all?”
“Yes, of course he is going into the bank,” her husband replied hastily. “It’s all settled. Don’t interrupt me, Roland. I can’t understand what you’ve been doing!”