Mr. Roland Yorke. No one more formidable. He passed Judith with an unceremonious nod, and marched into the breakfast-room.
“Good morning all! I say, old chap, are you ready to come to the office? It’s good to see you down at this early hour, Mr. Channing.”
He was invited to take a seat, but declined; it was time they were at Galloway’s, he said. Arthur hesitated.
“I do not know whether Mr. Galloway will expect me,” he observed.
“Not expect you!” flashed Roland, lapsing into his loud, excited manner. “I can tell you what, Arthur: if he doesn’t expect you, he shan’t expect me. Mr. Channing, did you ever know anything so shamefully overbearing and unjust as that affair yesterday?”
“Unjust, if it be unfounded,” replied Mr. Channing.
“Unfounded!” uttered Roland. “If that’s not unfounded, there never was an unfounded charge brought yet. I’d answer for Arthur with my own life. I should like to sew up that Butterby! I hope, sir, you’ll bring an action against him.”
“You feel it strongly, Roland.”
“I should hope I do! Look you, Mr. Channing: it is a slur on our office; on me, and on Jenkins, and on Galloway himself. Yes, on Galloway. I say what I mean, and nobody shall talk me down. I’d rather believe it was Galloway did it than Arthur. I shall tell him so.”
“This sympathy shows very kind feeling on your part, Ro—”