That's where I sit--over
there. I'm glad you've decided to stay and hear The Christmas Carol.
It will do you good, Mr. Flanders. You'll be a better man for it.
There is a train in at nine-fifty-five. We'll not be interrupted here,
so fire away. I'm ready to be interviewed."
They seated themselves on the broad, luxurious couch that marked the
precise centre of the semi-circle and was evidently intended to be the
section of honour. Mr. Bingle leaned back, stretched out his slender
legs, crossed his feet, and looked over his tortoise-shell glasses
with a fine assumption of tolerance. He was still trying, after many
years, to enjoy his own importance. Sad to relate, he still expected
to wake up and find that he had but half an hour in which to eat his
breakfast and get across town to the bookkeeper's stool he had
occupied the day before. He sometimes felt of his ears reminiscently,
for they seemed in some way to clearly connect him with his last
waking hours. He never quite got over listening for the alarm clock.
At fifty-three, he was no older in appearance than when he was forty-
three.
Pages:
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144