She heard a perpetual clicking noise which roused
her interest, and smelled a peculiar odour of leather and disinfectant
which impressed her disagreeably. A youth with reddish hair and a pen
in his hand passed through and looked at her with a curious stare
immediately averted. She suddenly felt sorry for him and all those
other young men behind the lumps of paper, and the thought went flashing
through her mind, 'I suppose it's all because people can't agree.'
She was shown in to Mr. Paramor at last. In his large empty room, with
its air of past grandeur, she sat gazing at three La France roses in a
tumbler of water with the feeling that she would never be able to begin.
Mr. Paramor's eyebrows, which jutted from his clean, brown face like
little clumps of pothooks, were iron-grey, and iron-grey his hair
brushed back from his high forehead. Mrs. Pendyce wondered why he
looked five years younger than Horace, who was his junior, and ten years
younger than Charles, who, of course, was younger still. His eyes, which
from iron-grey some inner process of spiritual manufacture had made into
steel colour, looked young too, although they were grave; and the smile
which twisted up the corners of his mouth looked very young.
"Well," he said, "it's a great pleasure to see you."
Mrs.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275