The shiverer, with a nervous movement, shifted his walking-stick to his left hand, and laid his right on the door-knob. Though he was not at his best, let us take a look at him. Tall, as has been noted, perfectly garbed after London taste, mild and blue as to eye, blond as to hair. A handsome, if somewhat weak face. Very distinguished—even aristocratic—in appearance Perhaps—the thrill for us democrats here of the nobility. And at this moment sadly need of a generous dose of that courage that abounds—see any book of familiar quotations—on the playing fields of Eton.
Utterly destitute of the Eton or any of any brand, he pushed open the door. The click two dozen American typewriters smote upon hearing. An office boy of the dominant New York race demanded in loud indiscreet tones business there.
"My business," said the tall young man weakly, "is with Lloyds, of London."
The boy wandered off down that stenographer-bordered lane. In a moment he was back.
"Mr. Thacker'll see you," he announced.
