He opened it and read:
"I absolutely forbid this monstrous outrage on a work of art.—TRENT."
"Bit late in the day, isn't he?" said Edward Henry, showing the telegram to Marrier.
"Besides," Marrier observed, "he'll come round when he knows what his royalties are."
"Well," said Edward Henry, "I'm going to bed." And he gave a devastating yawn.
VIII
One afternoon Edward Henry sat in the king of all the easy-chairs in the drawing-room of his house in Trafalgar Road, Bursley. Although [311] the month was September, and the weather warm even for September, a swansdown quilt lay spread upon his knees. His face was pale—his hands were paler; but his eye was clear and his visage enlightened. His beard had grown to nearly its original dimensions. On a chair by his side were a number of letters to which he had just dictated answers. At a neighbouring table a young clerk was using a typewriter. Stretched at full length on the sofa was Robert Machin, engaged in the perusal of the second edition of that day's Signal. Of late Robert, having exhausted nearly all available books, had been cultivating during his holidays an interest in journalism, and he would give great accounts, in the nursery, of events happening in each day's instalment of the Signal's sensational serial. His heels kicked idly one against the other.
A powerful voice resounded in the lobby, and Dr Stirling entered the room with Nellie.