it in his hands, brick-red and glowering at them. She was going to take
it from him when he dunted it down on the window-seat with a clatter.
"What for can he not go on with his good chop?" thought Ellen. "We're
putting on grand company manners for this bit chemist body, surely," and
she pulled forward a chair for the stranger and sat down in the corner
with her note-book on her knee.

"You're Mr. Yaverland?" said Mr. Philip, shooting his chin forward and
squaring his shoulders, and looking as though his father were dead and
he were the head of the firm.

"I'm Richard Yaverland. Mr. Frank Gibson said you might be good enough
to see to my affairs for me. I've got a letter from him...."

Decidedly the man had an air. He slid the letter across the table as if
he did not care in the least whether anybody ever picked it up and
retreated into a courteous inattention. She felt a little cross at Mr.
Philip for not showing that Edinburgh too understands the art of
arrogance, for opening the letter so clumsily and omitting to say the
nice friendly thing. Well, if he was put about it was his own fault for
not going on with the chop, it being well known to all educated persons
that one cannot work on an empty stomach. If this man would go soon she
would run down to Mrs. Powell and get her to heat up the chop again. She
eyed him anxiously to see if he looked the kind of person who left when
one wanted him to, and found herself liking him for the way he slouched
in his chair, as though he wanted to mitigate as much as possible his
terrifying strength and immensity. What for did a fine man like him help
to make cordite, the material of militarism, which is the curse of the
nations? She wished he could have heard R.J. Campbell speak on peace the
other night at the Synod Hall; it was fine. But probably he was a