CHAPTER XIX
A SLUM POST
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| "Sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal." |
Despair fells; suspense tortures. The forty odd hours which lay between the ending of the Grahams' dinner and the promised interview with Winifred Anstice stretched out into an eternity to the impatience of Flint. By turns he tried occupation and diversion; yet his ear caught every tick of the clock, which seemed to his exaggerated fancy to have retarded its movement. He found it so impossible to work at his office that he packed up his papers and started for home.
"What! going so early?" called Brooke from his desk.
"Yes, a man cannot do any work here with this everlasting steam-drill outside."
"You are growing too sensitive for this world, Flint. We shall have to build you a padded room, like Carlyle's, on top of the building."