A pot of tea was beside his bed, and a plate with three thin slices of bread and butter. Parker was standing in silhouette against the window. Francis looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. “What kind of day is it?” he asked. “It’s not actually raining, sir. That’s about all that you can say for it.” He leaned sideways to the tea tray. He shivered as his arm came from beneath the bedclothes. It was cold all right. “Chuck me across my dressing gown, there’s a good chap,” he said. It was a thin silk gown, that was amply adequate for the centrally heated rooms of home, but he could have done here with camel’s hair. Cowered back, under the blankets, he watched Parker arrange his clothes, take out his studs and links, tuck in the toes of his socks. It was the first time he had been valeted. “How many others do you do this for?” he asked. “Only yourself, sir, at the moment.” “What about Mr. Eckersley?” “He’s brought his own man with him.” So one arrived with a retinue, like King Lear.
