Coast hated his room. Everything seemed to have been there a long time, but nothing was at rest. He knew it was all in execrable taste. Mrs. Robson would think he didn't know any better than that. She would not guess that the furniture was bequeathed by Coast's predecessor, and he, with his mind fixed upon rapid promotion, had not thought it worth while to alter things.
He sought for an appropriate beginning and found none. During the previous days he had rehearsed this interview, casting himself for the triumphant rôle of vanquisher of the tyrant and picturing lovingly Mrs. Robson's final confusion. Now he could think of nothing to say.
"Well?" Mary from her chair raised calm, indifferent eyes to her host, where he stood by the mantelpiece frowning and biting his moustache. "I thought you had something to tell me."
Coast passed a trembling hand across his mouth.
"Mr. Robson probably told you of my proposal about the paddock."
If only he could find something safe to look at, he was sure he would be all right. His eyes travelled along the mantelpiece and the chiffonier to the bookcase. There in a row below faded novels and school readers were his books.
"My husband did say something to me, but I forgot."
"He probably told you that the County Council had made a very handsome offer for its purchase."
"They made the offer to me. The field is mine."
Mrs. Robson was looking at the books too now. Her glance had followed his. She saw a fat grey volume called "Capital" by Karl Marx and a paper backed volume called "Essays on Socialism" by Bentley Box, and a flaming orange cover, with scarlet letters announcing "The Salvation of Society" by some one whose name was too small to be legible.