At this point S. of P. bit his quill with such violence that a large blot was shaken from the end of it upon the monogram which decorated the communication.
“The problem as I envisage it”—S. of P. took a small gold pencil out of his waistcoat pocket and made a note on his blotting pad. “The problem as I envisage it”—but the problem that he did envisage was the Suffolk Colthurst, who at that moment entered the room.
The Suffolk Colthurst was large and blonde—so large and so blonde that to a profane mind she rather conveyed the suggestion of a particularly well-grown cauliflower.
“Wally, please, don’t let me spoil your morning. Don’t let me interrupt you, please.”
The voice of the Suffolk Colthurst was really quite agreeable, although a little light in the upper register. You might even call it flutelike if you cared to indulge in metaphor.
“Not at all, Agatha,” said S. of P. with excellent chest resonance. “I am merely envisaging the problem of the—ah—”
“Don’t, Wally.” The voice of the Suffolk Colthurst was perhaps a shade less flutelike if history really calls for these nuances. “You are making yourself ridiculous. Please drop the subject.”
“No, Agatha.” The sun setting over Africa might be compared to the brow of the great Proconsul. “Man in The Thunderer most impertinent. Signs himself Verax. Suspect it’s that fellow—”
“Wally.” The Suffolk Colthurst roared here a little less gently than usual. “I will not uphold you! Everybody thinks it is most injudicious.”
“Everybody, Agatha?”