Shropshire. It made him home-sick, conjuring up visions of shady
gardens and country sounds and smells, and the silver Severn gleaming
in the distance through the trees. About now, if he were not in this
dismal place, he would be lying in the shade in the garden with a book,
or wandering down to the river to boat or bathe. That envelope
addressed to the man in Shropshire gave him the worst moment he had
experienced that day.

The time crept slowly on to one o'clock. At two minutes past Mike awoke
from a day-dream to find Mr Waller standing by his side. The cashier
had his hat on.

'I wonder,' said Mr Waller, 'if you would care to come out to lunch. I
generally go about this time, and Mr Rossiter, I know, does not go out
till two. I thought perhaps that, being unused to the City, you might
have some difficulty in finding your way about.'

'It's awfully good of you,' said Mike. 'I should like to.'

The other led the way through the streets and down obscure alleys till
they came to a chop-house. Here one could have the doubtful pleasure of
seeing one's chop in its various stages of evolution. Mr Waller ordered
lunch with the care of one to whom lunch is no slight matter. Few
workers in the City do regard lunch as a trivial affair. It is the
keynote of their day. It is an oasis in a desert of ink and ledgers.
Conversation in city office deals, in the morning, with what one is
going to have for lunch, and in the afternoon with what one has had for
lunch.

At intervals during the meal Mr Waller talked. Mike was content to