"Rosie's out, but you can go in and sit down," said Clay, who was already back and working in his garden. "I must finish these few rows of cabbage while it's light."
Mr. Lester went in, but he did not sit down. The window of the room commanded a view of Clay, and the visitor utilised his time by peering into the ornaments and corners to see whether a few Beornwulfs or a stray Ludeca had not been left about. The survey brought him to the mantelpiece, where two envelopes instantly caught his eye. One was that which contained his own letter, but at the sight of the name embossed on the flap of the other, Mr. Lester's heart for one crowded moment stood still. It was that of another London firm, Lester and Scott's particular trade rivals, and young Clay's procrastinating indifference began to assume another face.
Mr. Lester's hesitation only lay in the direction of assuring himself that he was in no danger of being seen. Then he took out the letter and read as follows:
He replaced the letter, ascertained from the postmark that it had only been delivered that day, and sat down to think. He was thus engaged when Rosie entered a few minutes later.
