She wanted to turn him. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. "Stand aside, Tom," commanded Kneebone. The door to the room in question was closed. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. They laughed and talked and stared about them. “Don’t you care for Mr. Celestial Uncles! Spurlock chuckled, and a bit of chestnut, going down the wrong way, set him to coughing violently. He had the air of a man who has said too much. These things did not harmonize with his conception of the forthcoming (if unavoidable) interview.
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