‘Very likely, sir; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank is there, sir, but very much engaged.’ He pointed to an inner counting-house, and the glass doors permitted Coningsby to observe several individuals in close converse.
‘Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is here?’ inquired Coningsby.
‘Mr. Oswald is in Belgium,’ said the clerk.
‘Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, and say a friend of his son’s at Eton is here, and here only for a day, and wishes very much to see his works?’
‘Can’t possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now, sir; but, if you like to sit down, you can wait and see him yourself.’
Coningsby was content to sit down, though he grew very impatient at the end of a quarter of an hour. The ticking of the clock, the scratching of the pens of the three silent clerks, irritated him. At length, voices were heard, doors opened, and the clerk said, ‘Mr. Millbank is coming, sir,’ but nobody came; voices became hushed, doors were shut; again nothing was heard, save the ticking of the clock and the scratching of the pen.
At length there was a general stir, and they all did come forth, Mr. Millbank among them, a well-proportioned, comely man, with a fair face inclining to ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel eye, the whitest teeth, and short, curly, chestnut hair, here and there slightly tinged with grey. It was a visage of energy and decision.
He was about to pass through the counting-house with his companions, with whom his affairs were not concluded, when he observed Coningsby, who had risen.
‘This gentleman wishes to see me?’ he inquired of his clerk, who bowed assent.
‘I shall be at your service, sir, the moment I have finished with these gentlemen.’