A Letter
“Very inconsiderate, that’s what I call it,” said Lord Caterham.
He spoke in a gentle, plaintive voice and seemed pleased with the adjective he had found.
“Yes, distinctly inconsiderate. I often find these self-made men are inconsiderate. Very possibly that is why they amass such large fortunes.”
He looked mournfully out over his ancestral acres, of which he had today regained possession.
His daughter, Lady Eileen Brent, known to her friends and society in general as “Bundle,” laughed.
“You’ll certainly never amass a large fortune,” she observed dryly, “though you didn’t do so badly out of old Coote, sticking him for this place. What was he like? Presentable?”
“One of those large men,” said Lord Caterham, shuddering slightly, “with a red square face and iron-grey hair. Powerful, you know. What they call a forceful personality. The kind of man you’d get if a steamroller were turned into a human being.”
“Rather tiring?” suggested Bundle sympathetically.
“Frightfully tiring, full of all the most depressing virtues like sobriety and punctuality. I don’t know which are the worst, powerful personalities or earnest politicians. I do so prefer the cheerful inefficient.”