Norham suppressed a slight yawn as he turned in his chair.
"The House of Commons, alas!—never shows to advantage in an
ecclesiastical debate. You'd think it was in the condition of Sydney
Smith with a cold—not sure whether there were nine Articles and
Thirty-Nine Muses—or the other way on!"
Meynell looked at the Secretary of State in silence—his eyes twinkling.
He had heard from various friends of this touch of insolence in Norham.
He awaited its disappearance.
Edward Norham was a man still young; under forty indeed, though marked prematurely by hard work and hard fighting. His black hair had receded on the temples, and was obviously thinning on the crown of the head; he wore spectacles, and his shoulders had taken the stoop of office work. But the eyes behind the spectacles lost nothing that they desired to see; and the general impression was one of bull-dog strength, which could be impertinent and aggressive, and could also masque itself in a good humour and charm by no means insincere. In his political career, he was on the eve of great things; and he would owe them mainly to a power of work, supreme even in these hard-driven days. This power of work enabled him to glean in many fields, and keep his eye on many chances that his colleagues perforce neglected. The Modernist Movement was one of these chances. For years he had foreseen great changes ahead in the relations of Church and State, and this group of men seemed to be forcing the pace.
Suddenly, as his eyes perused the strong humanity of the face beside him, Norham changed his manner. He sat up and put down the paper-knife he had been teasing. As he did so there was a little crash at his elbow and something rolled on the floor.
"What's that?"
"No harm done," said Meynell, stooping—"one of our host's Greek coins. What a beauty!" He picked up the little case and the coin which had rolled out of it—a gold coin of Velia, with a head of Athene—one of the great prizes of the collector.
Norham took it with eagerness. He was a Cambridge man, and a fine scholar, and such things delighted him.
"I didn't know Flaxman cared for these things."
"He inherited them," said Meynell, pointing to the open cabinet on the table. "But he loves them too. Mrs. Flaxman always has them put out on great occasions. It seems to me they ought to have a watcher! They are quite priceless, I believe. Such things are soon lost."