'Henry tried to think. This sputtery little man! He was famous, and he wasn't even dignified. Henry would have expected a frock coat; or at least a manner of businesslike calm.
Mr Merchant was talking, good-humoredly. Henry heard part of it. He even answered questions now and then. But all the time he was trying—trying—to think. He thrust his hands into his pockets. One hand closed on the little box. He winced; closed his eyes; fought desperately for some sort of a mental footing.
'Calverly! What's the matter with you? You look ill. Let me get you a drink.'
And Henry heard his own voice saying weakly:—
'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well. It's been a—a hard day.'
'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've got a bit of excitement coming.'
Henry did this.
Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight to Henry; stood over' him; glared—angrily, Henry thought, with a fluttering of his wits—down at him.
It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again.
'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so important—nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty years ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest—that's the thing! And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our throats. What do you eat?'