He laughed gaily. There was a remarkable freedom from snobbishness in this young man; the fact of Reardon’s intellectual superiority had long ago counteracted Carter’s social prejudices.
‘I should like to have a word with you.’
‘Right you are!’
They went into a small inner room. Reardon’s pulse beat at fever-rate; his tongue was cleaving to his palate.
‘What is it, old man?’ asked the secretary, seating himself and flinging one of his legs over the other. ‘You look rather seedy, do you know. Why the deuce don’t you and your wife look us up now and then?’
‘I’ve had a hard pull to finish my novel.’
‘Finished, is it? I’m glad to hear that. When’ll it be out? I’ll send scores of people to Mudie’s after it.
‘Thanks; but I don’t think much of it, to tell you the truth.’
‘Oh, we know what that means.’
Reardon was talking like an automaton. It seemed to him that he turned screws and pressed levers for the utterance of his next words.