to be. His chief characteristic was an intense ordinariness. He was a
young man; and when you had said that of him you had said everything.
There was nothing which you would have noticed about him, except the
fact that there was nothing to notice. His age was twenty-two and his
name was Roland Bleke.

"Please, sir, it's about my salary."

Mr. Fineberg, at the word, drew himself together much as a British
square at Waterloo must have drawn itself together at the sight of a
squadron of cuirassiers.

"Salary?" he cried. "What about it? What's the matter with it? You get
it, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, but----"

"Well? Don't stand there like an idiot. What is it?"

"It's too much."

Mr. Fineberg's brain reeled. It was improbable that the millennium
could have arrived with a jerk; on the other hand, he had distinctly
heard one of his clerks complain that his salary was too large. He
pinched himself.

"Say that again," he said.

"If you could see your way to reduce it, sir----"