“Hello, Mr Heywood.” Murphy was suddenly glad, glad that Mr Heywood had called him by his first name; he did this only when he was well-pleased, or wanted something.
Oliver L. Murphy leaned back in his leather armchair. Mr Heywood sat rather limply in his own chair at the head of the table. He waited for the others to be seated.
Lawrence Heywood was a gentleman. He had a large estate in Maryland and he collected prints; he had had three wives and a number of children and, generally, he had managed to do everything in a large but tasteful manner.
He was a tall man in his late forties. Completely bald, his neat round head shone pinkly under the indirect lights. His face was smooth and neat and looked as if he had never worried in his life. His voice was not near-British like his vice-presidents: it was British. He had gone to school in Massachusetts which explained a lot of it, thought Murphy.
Mr Heywood did everything properly. He had inherited a lot of money. It seemed as if every year a new relative would die and leave more money to him. His three wives had all been beautiful and that was another thing to be said for him—he knew how to choose women. Mr Murphy wondered what it would be like to marry a beautiful woman.
“How’s that new man in your office?” asked Mr Heywood suddenly.
“You mean Holton? He’s doing very well.”
“I’m glad to hear it. We have a mutual friend,” and Mr Heywood laughed gently at the thought.
“Is that right? He’s got a good background, I guess,” said Murphy.
“I expect so. I used to know his mother. She was a very attractive woman twenty years ago. She married...” Mr Heywood decided not to reminisce in front of Murphy.