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He had been able to
count on this because the Whitneys had a certain pride in preserving
some of the customs of the generation before them; at least Martin had,
and Frederica's good-natured, rueful acquiescence gave her at once
something to laugh at him a little about and a handy leverage for the
extraction of miscellaneous concessions. It wasn't exactly a misdemeanor
to be late to breakfast--it began promptly at eight o'clock--but it was
distinctly meritorious not to be. Martin never was and he always left
the house for his office at exactly eight-twenty. His chauffeur was
trained to take just ten minutes trundling the big car down-town, and
eight-thirty found him at his desk as invariably as it had found his
father before him. It was all perfectly ritualistic, of course. There
wasn't the slightest need for any of it.
A knowledge of the ritual, though, stood Rodney in good stead this
morning. He liked Martin well enough--had really a traditional and
vicarious affection for him. But he was about the last man he wanted to
see to-day.


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