Julia grasped his arm as he was about to shut the door upon her:
“No personal violence, please, Netherby. You won’t hurt him—will you?”
“My dear Julia,” said he, hurrying her into the room, “I am surprised at such a suggestion!” He shut the door, and, turning his back upon it, he added grimly: “Personal violence is quite contrary to the traditions of this office, Noll—it should, in our judgment, be the very last resource.” He coughed. “The office broom, I fear, Noll, is in the editor’s cupboard——”
Noll whooped:
“Hooroosh!” cried he—“we haven’t had a row in the office for nearly five weeks!”
There was a loud knock.
Noll whipped round on his high stool, and was immediately engrossed in the heavy work of his office.
“Come in!” cried Netherby Gomme.
The door on to the landing was thrown open and revealed the figure of an elaborately dressed exquisite, who entered the room deliberately, diffusing scents—one of those well-polished, shining beings who never seem to catch a speck of dust. He had an hereditary qualification to pass for a gentleman—he knew how to dress for the part. He could strain good taste in adornment to the uttermost stretch without breaking it. He stood with the arrogant self-assurance that largely stands for good-breeding amongst the inane, and though the perfection of his clothes’ fit could not hide the fact that the lamp of intelligence burnt but gutteringly at the top where were his wits, he had the self-respect to ignore his defects. He looked calmly round the room, and, taking a card with deliberate coolness from a silver cardcase, he asked:
“Will someone—ah—kindly give my card to—ah—that most comely young lady who—ah—has just come in?”