“I have made no other arrangements.”
“Oh, well, that is all right, my dear. I can get a cab. I—I just wanted to know, you see....”
Having completely and ignominiously surrendered, he beamed at his daughter. Muriel smiled back.
Here: Lois was ensconced in a deep armchair of bronzed leather. She was examining her little feet that lay in a rich Turkish rug. A knock at the door.
“Come in,” said her father without looking up.
A young man, the symbol of subservience, stepped in.
He placed a group of papers before Mr. Deane, who did not look at him. He stepped back, threw up his head and waited.
Mr. Deane raced through the papers. He marked annotations. He grunted.
“You’ll have to see Mr. McGill about this”: the young man agilely stepped forward to ascertain which paper it was, and agilely subsided. “All right. Let Mr. Marton attend to the tax.”
He returned the papers to the young man, for the first time saw him.