"And . . . what is the procedure?" he asked, after a pause. "I am new to the sort of thing." He had the air, I thought, of talking to some respectable tradesman that one calls in only when one is in extremis—to a distinguished pawnbroker, a man quite at the top of a tree of inferior timber.
"Oh, for the matter of that, so am I," I answered. "I'm supposed to get your atmosphere, as Callan put it."
"Indeed," he answered, absently, and then, after a pause, "You know Callan?" I was afraid I should fall in his estimation.
"One has to do these things," I said; "I've just been getting his atmosphere."
He looked again at the letter in his hand, smoothed his necktie and was silent. I realised that I was in the way, but I was still so disturbed that I forgot how to phrase an excuse for a momentary absence.
"Perhaps, . . ." I began.
He looked at me attentively.
"I mean, I think I'm in the way," I blurted out.
"Well," he answered, "it's quite a small
[85]
