In the midst of these agreeable meditations the dinner-bell rang, and he went downstairs and found his host standing in the hall, looking out for him—a grey-haired, round-faced, pink-cheeked, elderly man, with a bland smile and an amiable expression.
His appearance for some reason caused Jerome a kind of shock, he had unconsciously expected something so different. The climax of disillusion and commonplace appeared to have been reached when Mr. Netley, shaking hands with him and smiling benevolently, said he was sure Mr. Wellfield wanted his dinner. With his usual sang froid, Jerome, after a momentary pause, smiled slightly, and said ‘Yes,’ he was very hungry. They went into the dining-room, and here Mr. Netley volunteered the remark that he thought business had better wait until after dinner, to which Jerome again yielded a cordial assent, and they took their places—Jerome with an ever-deeper suspicion that somehow Mr. Netley was not—the only word he could think of was, ‘sharp’—that, for a solicitor of his standing, he was decidedly not very sharp.
‘Have you ever been in Manchester before?’ asked Mr. Netley.
‘As a child, I may. Never since I grew up; nor, indeed, in any place like it.’
‘Ah! it’s an odd kind of place. Very thorough-going—strong political views, you know.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. Not that I know anything about politics; I never took the slightest interest in them.’
‘No? Not been thrown in the way of that kind of thing, I suppose?’
‘Not at all. All my friends have been musical, or literary, or artistic people—or, nothing in particular, like myself.’
‘I see. Well, there is a section in Manchester that goes in for art, and music, and that kind of thing. We’ve very fine music here—concerts, you know—a great many concerts, in the season.’
‘Yes, I suppose everyone has heard that Manchester is a music-loving town.’