Mr. Dering returned to his papers. He was not changed in the eight years since the stormy interview with this young lady's brother: his small whiskers were a little whiter: his iron-gray hair was unchanged; his lips were as firm and his nostrils as sharp, his eyes as keen as then.
The room looked out pleasantly upon the garden of New Square, where the sunshine lay warm upon the trees with their early summer leaves. Sunshine or rain, all the year round, the solicitor sat in his high-backed chair before his great table. He sat there this morning working steadily until he had got through what he was about. Then he looked at his watch. It was past two o'clock. He touched a bell on the table, and his old clerk came in.
Though he was the same age as his master, Checkley looked a great deal older. He was bald, save for a small white patch over each ear; he was bent, and his hands trembled. His expression was sharp, foxy, and suspicious. He stood in the unmistakable attitude of a servant, hands hanging in readiness, head a little bent.
'The clerks are all gone, I suppose?' said Mr. Dering.
'All gone. All they think about when they come in the morning is how soon they will get away. As for any pride in their work, they haven't got it.'
'Let them go.—Checkley, I have wanted to speak to you for some time.'
'Anything the matter?' The old clerk spoke with the familiarity of long service which permits the expression of opinions.
'The time has come, Checkley, when we must make a change.'
'A change? Why—I do my work as well as ever I did—better than any of the younger men. A change?'
'The change will not affect you.'